


Helmet of Honor

by SillyRomantic4Ever



Series: Mandalorian Legacy [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adjusting, Alternate Universe, Big Reveal, Bonus Chapter, Bounty Hunters, Burg - Freeform, But Mando and the Child don't go off the planet alone, But Mando needs a job, Cannoks, Chapter 26 is an outline of sorts, Chapter 7: The Reckoning -- Summary, Chapter 8: Redemption -- Summary, Dxun (Star Wars), Dxun Mandalorians, Dxun-Onderon's moon, Enter: The Prisoner Episode, Galidraan--planet, Gen, Get a glimpse of Mando's thinking, He'd rather be looking for Talia and the baby, He's Vandar in here, He's hurt, He's not happy with her, Her story's heartbreaking, I actually named the Child, Interrupted by stormtroopers, Japrael System (Star Wars), Kidnapping of the Child, Maalraas, Mandalorian & the Child--bonding, Mandalorian Culture, Mandalorian's POV, Mandalorians & Onderonians living together in "peace", Mando tracks Talia, Mando understands, Mando's dragged in politics, Mayfeld - Freeform, Not going to give much away in tags, Onderon (Star Wars), Onderonian Culture, Parent-Child Relationship, Planets from Star Wars, Political Conspiracies, Ranzar Malk - Freeform, Reconciliation, Renewed frienship, Rescue on Dxun, Set after Chapter 5: The Gunslinger, Sharing a small ship, She explains a lot, Talia leaves and Mando isn't happy with her, Talia's past comes crashing down on Mando, The Tomb of Freedon Nadd, They all get to meet Talia, They argue, They need to be there for the baby, Time to leave Onderon, Uncovering the truth / detective work, Welcome Talia: now part of the Crest's crew, Xi'an, Xi'an vs. Talia -- Won't that be embarrassing for Mando? Haha, Zero - Freeform, betrayed, including her past, they have to work together, what could go wrong?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 234,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24684541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SillyRomantic4Ever/pseuds/SillyRomantic4Ever
Summary: Fate is pulling the Mandalorian bounty hunter down paths he would not normally have taken, but with a gifted baby in his care, he is open to the possibility that perhaps there is something bigger guiding his steps--which is why he had set a course for Onderon. He has a duty to fulfill and an old friend to see. Despite the fact that the Mandalorians living there are not as strict in traditions like he is used to, he still clings to his Tribe's doctrines and strides through the vast city of Iziz with his helmet firmly in place.While adjusting to Onderon, he learns more about his fellow Mandalorian, Talia, and watches as the child's bond with her deepens. However, their worlds will soon collide. Politics will seep its way into his life while bounty hunting shakes hers. Will he clear his life-debt to her as honor demands and then quickly leave the planet, just like he did on Sorgan? Or will the Mandalorian allow Talia to linger in the child's life, and possibly in his, too?
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Original Character(s)
Series: Mandalorian Legacy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711477
Comments: 157
Kudos: 57





	1. Izizian Gossip

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I’m back with a (hopefully) solid plot figured out! This two-week break has given me a chance to recharge and plan in more detail. [I hope I wasn’t gone too long that people have forgotten about me. ;) ] I’ll be making my chapters longer now. Normally, they reach up to 15 pages on Word, but for what I have in store, I believe 20 pages or more will be a better length.
> 
> This story begins right between “Chapter 5: The Gunslinger” and “Chapter 6: The Prisoner.” However, my goal for “Helmet of Honor” is to end with the final episode of Season 1. (And when I finish with “The Prisoner,” I would really like to know everyone’s thoughts on an idea I have, but I’ll ask when the time gets closer.) I figure that this will be a much longer story than my previous two, an idea which is both exciting yet almost intimidating for me. But fingers crossed, I'll be able to continue and update on Fridays.
> 
> Comments and kudos are MOST welcome! Please be kind and courteous. But above all, I thank you for returning to my series, "Mandalorian Legacy." I hope you enjoy reading "Helmet of Honor" as much as you enjoyed "My Weapon, My Religion" and "Bleeding Beskar."
> 
> (P.S. Iziz, Onderon's capital? Pronounced: "i-zeez" not "eye-sis." If you want to know more about it and the planet, go to "Bleeding Beskar," Chapter 10.)

* * *

Chapter I: Izizian Gossip

Less than forty minutes ago, the Mandalorian bounty hunter had arrived on Onderon with the child in tow. With the hour being so late, the green alien had been fast asleep when his guardian safely found lodging for the _Razor Crest_ in one of the many hangars here in Iziz. Rather than wake the child, the man locked up his ship and stretched his legs, confident that no one will disturb his reserved section of the hangar.

It feels nice to plant his feet on hard, solid ground again. For some reason, traveling the long distance from the Outer Rim had given him cabin fever. He could have gotten both him and the kid to Onderon earlier, if he wanted to. Instead of ploughing through hyperspace like a man on a mission, he allowed the _Crest_ to transport him to the Japrael System at a lazy pace. He had stopped at a planet and space station here and there for the child’s sake, and for his. His pointy-ear ward was growing restless and craved fresh food. So, the Mandalorian took one day at a time in their travels, choosing secure places to unleash their confined energies, sleep on actual mattresses, and eat hot meals. Plus, he was able to have his computer update his databanks on Onderon.

The streets of Iziz are dimly lit as he strides through the massive city. Streetlights glow a soft yellow, their comforting beams cascading down to the cobblestone pavements below. The buildings surrounding him stand tall and reach for the evening sky. Though most are new, constructed from dark metal and dull steel, he passes by several that appear to be much older, crafted from rock and stone. A majority of the buildings have rooftop coverings, protecting upper rooms and walkways from Onderon’s sun. He surveys homes, apartments, shops, and cantinas with a curious eye. The general architecture, he notes, have pillar-like designs at the entrances, which make the buildings’ embellished doors seem even more grand. Large windows bounce off the soft glow of the streetlamps, helping to paint the evening with light.

A breeze whisks through the streets, lifting his gray cloak from behind him. From what he can tell, there is a slight hint of humidity in the air, no doubt due to the planet’s jungle climate. There are no clouds in the sky, yet he can spy Onderon’s four moons, with Dxun being the largest. The Mandalorian sphere looms in the horizon, flushing a velvety green. Every time he blinks up at it, it seems to grow even closer to its sister-planet.

As he strolls through the city, choosing to walk down streets wherever his gut leads him, he comes across some people and passes them by without a word. Most are in groups or pairs, either laughing or whispering together. The Onderonian humanoids, he notices, mostly share the same features of dark hair and tanned skin. Of course, there are people living here with other shades of complexions and hair. The file he read on the planet mentioned a minor population of aliens. The list of non-humanoids was extensive, but he sights mostly Ithorians with their long, curving necks and T-shaped heads and Twi’leks with their lengthy pairs of shapely prehensile tentacles. When he turns a corner, he sees the hairless, domed head of a Bith shouldering a drunk, tusked Aqualish down the street. An odd pair indeed.

Whether humanoid or alien, they all seem to be dressed the same: loose tunics with comfortable trousers, vests, and ankle-long robes. A main element they have in common are the extra fabrics draping around them, such as sashes, shawls, and turbans. Even in this dim light, he can tell the difference in the social classes.

When he crosses one street, entering a side of Iziz with grander buildings, he sees that the wealthier citizens dawdling on their balconies are adorned in silkier or velvety material, dyed in vibrant hues. And as he marches past another neighborhood with smaller homes and dirtied walls, he takes in the people working late outside their doors, preparing for the next day. They have donned attire made of rougher fabrics with a simpler style and less extravagant colors. He can pinpoint holes and tattered edges in the clothing, and he is on the verge of wondering if there is a middle-class when he reaches the end of the street. A man hurriedly brushes past him and mumbles an apology. The Mandalorian says nothing and, instead, surveys the man’s appearance. The native is dressed in clothes with a combination of style and material from both social groups. It is dresswear that seems more practical—to him at least.

He stalks to another section of the inner city and is stunned when he comes face-to-face with a group of Mandalorians. He knows Iziz must be crawling with people from his Creed, but seeing them with his own eyes feels like the wind got knocked out of him. The five Mandos are laughing at a joke, and he detects a slanted accent seasoning their voices. Some of their armors, painted with various colors, gleam in the streetlights’ glow. He spies their signets imprinted on their pauldrons or their breastplates, and he identifies the animals as natives to both Onderon and Dxun.

Three of the Mandos are not wearing their helmets, a fact that still catches him off-guard. He bites his tongue from reprimanding them and simply stares. The Mandos send him a nod as they walk past him. They do not even spare him a second glance; however, one—a shapely female with dirty blonde hair—sends him a wink.

Other than an occasional scuffle and laughter, Iziz is somewhat quiet right now. Any evening activities such as cantina brawls or music and late-night parties merely give the city a light buzz, as if lulling slumbering citizens into a deeper sleep. And rising above Iziz, keeping watch like a faithful guardian, is the Unifar Temple in all its glory.

The Mandalorian stops in the middle of a deserted plaza, his gaze drawn to the lofty palace, home of the royal family. As his eyes take it in, surveying the glistening marble and shiny windows, he wonders if Talia is in the tower-like building, asleep in a plush bed or working late to counter another political scheme against a rival.

_Let’s see what the people think of her and her family,_ he muses to himself as he turns away from the palace.

With determined steps he treads down another street which is lit up more than the others. When he glances around, he realizes why: it is an entertainment district radiant with flamboyant signs and lights. Their neon colors bounce off his silver armor, and even behind his helmet, his eyes squint at how bright they shine. Restaurants, cantinas, gambling halls, cafés, and paramour houses stretch for about half a mile, but he ends up sneaking through an alleyway between a cantina and a gambling hall. If he wants information, he would prefer to get it from a somewhat “honest” citizen.

After several minutes he finds himself entering into a cantina located in the middle of Iziz called Boma’s Brews. Only a few miles away from the Unifar Temple, he figures this may be a place where local gossip and political opinions can be found. Quiet music, played by a Bith trio, float on the night air. The Biths, with their black eyes and domed heads, are sitting down in the corner, their upper bodies swaying to the music they are creating.

He surveys the middle-class cantina. Its large room covered in tables and is about one-third filled with humanoids and aliens alike. People of mixed social classes murmur to each other; most, he sees, are exhausted due to the late hour. While some are deep in their cups and gabbing on about their troubles, others are snoring on the tables, their heads buried in their crossed arms.

Standing beside the door is a male Aqualish, who is obviously the bouncer. The Mandalorian sends the arachnoid-looking alien a nod before striding towards the bar. He walks around the long rectangular counter, its crimson surface wet from being washed down with a soapy rag. Two bartenders, a man and red-headed woman dressed in simple tunics, are drying cups of various sizes. It is past one o’clock in the morning, and the redhead looks ready to fall asleep on her feet. When she spots him, she does not bother swallowing her frustrated sigh and nudges the man next to her, silently telling him to see to their new patron.

As the Mandalorian sits at the corner of the drying counter, the male bartender walks over to him, a welcoming smile on his tanned face. Wrinkles crease his cheeks and eyes, and the Mandalorian figures his host to be approaching his mid-fifties. His black hair is long and peppered with gray, but he is lucky to have so much of it pulled into a knot at his neck. Startling blue eyes survey him as his host wipes his hands on his dish towel before slinging the semi-wet cloth over a broad shoulder.

“Greetings, Mando. I’ve never seen your armor around these parts,” the man pleasantly says, his Onderonian accent rolling off his tongue. It reminds the bounty hunter of Talia’s, except it is thicker and does not have that elegant element to it which—he now knows—comes from Coruscant.

“Welcome to Boma’s Brews. My name is Nazim. And you made it just in time. Me and my wife will be closing up in the next thirty minutes. So, what can I get for you? May I suggest a Dxun _tihaar_ *? Most people like its fruity kick. Or maybe you’d like something to eat.”

_(_ * _pronounced: TEE-har; an alcoholic drink / a strong, clear spirit made from fruit)_

“No, thank you,” the Mandalorian replies, amused at how light-hearted the bar owner is despite the late hour. With a sample of his conversation, he has a feeling Nazim is just the right person to ask about local news.

At his answer, Nazim seems taken aback. He sends his guest a strange look, and the Mandalorian can only guess what is going through his mind. A man who enters a bar with no intention of drinking is undoubtedly a rare occurrence.

“I’m new here. And I’m,” the Mandalorian shares, his voice low, “looking for information.”

“Really?” the other man asks, his blue eyes lighting up with interest. He lowers his voice, too, and leans forward. “Which planet are you from, Mando?”

“Mandalore.”

The interest in his gaze flickers with sorrow before Nazim blinks both emotions away. “Ah, I see. Well, Iziz or Dxun is a nice place to start fresh.”

“Seems like it,” the Mandalorian comments. “But before I decide, I wanna know about the government. Are the monarchs ruling here as snobby as Imperial officials?”

Nazim shakes his head, a chuckle on his lips. “Not even close, _ner burc’ya_ *. But you came at an interesting time.”

_(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

“Is that so?” he asks, intrigued at how easily and naturally his host said something in Mando’a.

“Yep,” Nazim replies over his shoulder, walking back to his red-headed wife. He picks up a plastic crate filled with rinsed cups and tankards and returns to where the Mandalorian is sitting. He notices Nazim is wearing a thick, leather strap around his right wrist. It has an intricate design, like jungle vines, engraved in it with some beading. On the same arm, he sees a matching strap secured to his host’s bicep.

As Nazim begins to dry the dishware, he says, “You see, Mando, our Queen—Thea’s her name—was pushed off the throne recently.”

_And here my file said she stepped down._

“Sounds complicated,” he remarks instead.

“It was. I’ve heard from one of the Royal Guards who comes here to drink that the Council—and some Lords and Ladies—were putting together a coup. Well,” Nazim decides, drying a long glass cup. “Okay, maybe not exactly a coup. _But_ they were gathering support across the planet to retire Queen Thea. Forcibly.”

“What was wrong with her?” he prods, although he already knows the answer. “Too controlling?”

“Not at all. She’s been a good queen no matter what people say. Some believed she was too much under the Empire’s thumb, but let me tell you that’s not true.” Nazim loudly sets down a metal tankard for emphasis. “Her father was like that, but you couldn’t blame him. The Empire killed his oldest son, you know.”

“So, Thea was different?”

“Yeah. She was patient. Did you know that she managed to convince the Imps to increase the income of our tradesmen? But, of course, _some_ people wanted a bigger payday and grumbled from here to Dxun. They just wanted everything to go back to the way things were before the Empire.”

Nazim’s voice had gotten louder, which earns him a look from his wife, who rolls her eyes at him. The Mandalorian figures this is not the first time her husband has become passionate over politics. It seems he hit the jackpot on learning Izizian gossip. But unlike most busybodies, Nazim is light-hearted and open rather than mean and degrading. Clearly, the bar owner is enjoying the attention the Mandalorian is giving him; however, Nazim’s ego does not appear to be growing the further they delve into this informative conversation. Bartending suits him.

“So, no Imperial citizens here?” he surmises aloud.

“Well, of course there were. But I hear a lot of things in this cantina. And the general rumblings were against the Empire, which isn’t surprising considering—”

“Hey, Naz!” a slurred voice booms. “How about another fill?”

The bar owner excuses himself and saunters over to a heavy-set Devaronian sitting in a corner, his boots propped up on the table. His dark pointy horns are a stark contrast to his peachy-colored skin.

“Feet off the furniture, Tosk!” Nazim snaps, swatting away the dusty boots with a hand. “You know Mila just bought it.”

As the two men exchange some playful banter, the Mandalorian glances at Nazim’s wife, whom he assumes is Mila. She is petite, but her arms are built and scarred as if she had seen combat. Her red hair is piled on her head in a messy bun, and he thinks he can spy some grey locks hidden in their thick depths. A frown is on her face when she glances at the time, no doubt eager to close up the cantina so she can tumble into bed and sleep off her exhaustion.

From where he is sitting at the other end of the bar, he spies two leather straps wrapped around each of her wrists. Their jungle vine design and beading remind him of Nazim’s bands, yet Mila’s is more elaborate. About three strings of beads are attached to the straps’ ends, and then they stretch over the backs of her hands before wrapping around three of her fingers like rings. The Mandalorian would have dismissed this interesting jewelry design if Nazim’s wrist- and arm-bands did not match his wife’s. Now, he is wondering the significance behind them.

A minute or two passes before his host finishes serving the Devaronian his alcohol. As he washes his hands again, the Mandalorian resumes their conversation and comments, “I’ll take it that Thea tried to balance things out. Between the Empire and Onderon.”

“She did,” Nazim replies while putting away his clean dishes. “And it drained her. Her public appearances weren’t as often as they used to be. And every time I did see her—in person or on the holo—she looked bushed. But I guess that’s the price of ruling yet not really ruling, if you get my meaning.”

“And the thanks she got was getting kicked off the throne, huh?”

Nazim quickly glances over his shoulder, probably checking to make sure he is not overheard. Then, he leans forward. His Onderonian accent is low when he admits, “Well, rumor is she hasn’t been herself. That she’s been frolicking the palace like she was a little girl again. And then, bam!” He slams his hand on the smooth counter, making his wife jump in the background. “She's normal again. But I don’t think she went crazy or anything. It’s a memory sickness.”

“Like dementia?” the Mandalorian queries, keeping his amusement towards the bartender in check.

“Yeah, something like that. But more aggressive. Her grandfather had it, you know. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew what was happening to him and retired before it got worse. That illness runs in that family,” he says, shaking his head sadly.

A female patron with inky dreadlocks long enough to reach her waist glides past the crimson counter and sets an empty tankard on the bar. “See you later, Mila. Here, Nazim,” the woman calls to the owner then flips him a credit before waving at his wife.

“Night, Siria,” Mila answers with a yawn. Her accent, the Mandalorian notices, sounds slanted, as if it had come from Concord Dawn.

“Catch you later!” Nazim waves at his patron.

“Did Thea have any support?” the Mandalorian asks, his mind shifting to Talia, hoping he can somehow bring her into their conversation. “I doubt the entire Council was eager to remove her.”

“Course she had it! Because she did, getting rid of her took longer,” Nazim reveals while grabbing Siria’s cup. “They’d been trying to replace her for the past year or two.”

“And she didn’t take the hint that she couldn’t handle ruling anymore?”

Nazim shrugs his broad shoulders. “What can I say? Royals can be stubborn. Especially, her husband. And that cousin of hers.”

The Mandalorian feels his ears perk up at the man’s last comment. A zing of excitement surges through his bloodstream. _Now_ , he is getting somewhere.

“An ambitious cousin, eyeing the throne?” he asks as casually as he can.

His host barks out a hearty laugh as if the Mandalorian, who blinks at the response, just made the funniest joke of the century. A few of the remaining patrons are shaken from their tired stupor and send Nazim death-glares. Even Mila looks annoyed at her husband’s outburst, but Nazim does not seem to notice any of them. For a couple of more seconds he simply chuckles out the rest of his mirth as he exits his station behind the bar.

“Oh, no, _ner burc’ya_ *!” he says with amusement. “Thea’s cousin is the best thing to have ever happened to Onderon. And Dxun, too, of course. No, no. Princess Talia is devoted to Thea, and the rest of the royal family.”

_(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha)_

_Princess?_ he thinks, startled. _The file didn’t say that. I thought she was just a Lady._ He eyes Nazim carefully and wonders if he is misinformed. But as the other man wipes down tables and pushes in stools, the Mandalorian cannot find any reason to doubt him. After all, one of Talia’s grandparents _must_ have been directly related to an Onderonian monarch, a link that would grant her the title of ‘princess.’

“They’re like sisters, Mando,” Nazim calls out to him, a hint of humor still visible in his blue eyes. “Tied to the hip.”

“Who’s tied to the hip?” Mila asks her husband as she ushers a few of the patrons out the door with help from their bouncer.

“Queen Thea and Princess Talia, _ner riduur_ *,” the bar owner replies.

_(_ * _pronounced: nair REE-door; translation: “my wife”)_

Nazim grabs a few more cups from empty tables and returns back behind the counter. As he washes the dishes, he focuses his attention onto the Mandalorian again who, it appears, is one of three patrons left in the cantina.

“Princess Talia sure was stubborn fighting the Empire’s policies and regimes. Come to think of it,” Nazim comments, his brows furrowed, “I’m shocked they didn’t assassinate her.”

“So, who replaced Thea?” the Mandalorian asks, knowing he needs to get the other man to talk faster before Mila pushes all of them out of the bar.

“Her oldest kid, Ridha. He’s about fifteen right now.”

“Doesn’t seem wise, putting a boy in charge of an entire planet.”

“And the moon colony. Don’t forget that.” Nazim points a soapy finger at him. “But he’s being restrained, politically speaking. I mean is, he’s under a regent.”

“Princess Talia?”

Nazim snorts at the Mandalorian’s query. “I wish. No, his father, Lord Kavan.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Well,” Nazim clears his throat, his voice quiet. “Meaning no disrespect, but a Mandalorian pretty much ruling Onderon? That hasn’t happened in, like, _ever_. It’s, well . . . how should I put it?” He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, searching for inspiration. “Strange? No, unusual. No, that’s not right. Tense?”

The Mandalorian inwardly chuckles as the bartender fails to come up with the correct description. “I’d be careful if I were you,” he says, almost good-naturedly. “I know some Mandalorians who would challenge you for saying something like that against one of our own.”

With wide eyes Nazim shakes his head. “Hey, I didn’t mean any offense. I’m half-Mando myself, on my mother’s side. And I married one, too,” he whispers, pointing his chin at Mila who is serving the Bith musicians a cup of spirits. “I’ve got lots of Mando friends, and most of them agree with me, that Princess Talia should’ve been made regent.”

“An Onderonian with the respect of the Creed?” the Mandalorian remarks with a theatrical scoff. “Now, _that’s_ unusual.”

“Not as much as you’d think,” Nazim replies, drying his dishes. “She’s half, like me. Most people here are. The Princess has done a lot for the people—works for both sides. I see her as a symbol of who we in the System are: a combination of two cultures. A new culture in of itself come to think of it.”

“So, why didn’t she become regent?”

“I’m not really sure myself. I haven’t heard much of anything about it. Some whispers say her rivals sped up Thea’s removal when Talia was away on Concord Dawn,” Nazim confides while putting away his glassware. “Others say she left on purpose. That it was her way of not really declaring her agreement that Thea really should be removed.”

_Or she broke free,_ the Mandalorian inwardly counters, _because she couldn’t bear to choose between the planet and her cousin._

“It’s a shame though,” the bar owner continues, obviously not paying attention to his patron’s silence. “Princess Talia would’ve been a good mentor to Ridha. But at least she’s still at Court. You know, she would’ve made a great queen. And you didn’t hear this from me,” he quickly adds. “Word is, Lord Kavan and her really haven’t been getting along lately.”

The piece of news sparks the Mandalorian’s curiosity. The files had not mentioned anything like that. “Why not?” he asks.

“Well, he’s from Clan Ordo, and she’s from Kex,” Nazim states as if that explained things. “You see, her Clan ‘rules’ his. When it comes to Mandalorian politics, _she’s_ over him, and I bet he hates that! Plus, she’s opposed some of the things he’s advised at Court.”

“But he married the Queen,” he bluntly says, knowing that a monarch’s spouse can wield _some_ power.

“True. But Talia’s banned from Dxun because she’s disgraced. And Kavan thinks that was reason enough for her to _not_ be in charge of the Clans living here. That she shouldn’t be representing them here on Onderon since she’s disgraced.”

_Ah, now that makes sense._

“One more cup for the road?” a drunk man with blonde ringlets asks Nazim. His face is plastered to the counter, a stream of drool rolling down his chin. The clear liquid reflects the bar’s surface, making it look like blood. He stretches his arm across the once clean counter and dangles a crystal whiskey glass over the edge.

“I don’t think so, Shifty,” the bar owner answers, snatching the cup before the inebriated patron drops it. “You’ve had enough for one night. Lenni!” He waves over his Aqualish bouncer and points to Shifty. “Make sure he makes it back home, will you? I wouldn’t trust him to walk across the street in this state.”

As Lenni carries out his boss’ request (literally), Nazim cleans Shifty’s cup and dries it.

“Family drama plus politics?” the Mandalorian resumes their chat, shaking his head. “Sounds messy to me.”

“Sure does.”

“Talia must have the Clans under control during this move from queen to regent.”

“Well, I haven’t heard any grumblings about it. But she’s retiring from being Clan Leader.”

Remembering what his host had said about an aggressive dementia illness running in his friend’s family, the Mandalorian fights the urge to fidget in his seat as he hesitantly asks, “Memory sickness?”

“Nah. Said she’s exhausted.”

“ _I’m_ exhausted!” Mila interrupts, shooing the last patrons out of the cantina with a wet towel.

“I’ll close up, _cyar’ika_ *,” her husband offers with an understanding smile. “Get some sleep.”

_(_ * _pronounced: shar-EE-kah; translation: “darling, sweetheart”)_

Mila stalks over to him, wraps her dish towel around his neck, and pulls him flush against her before smothering him in a heated kiss. The Mandalorian looks away, uncomfortable at this . . . passionate display of affection. He hears more than sees them break apart.

“ _Vor’e_ *!” she breathes out.

_(_ * _pronounced: VOHR-ay; translation: “Thanks”)_

“ _Kih’parjai_ *,” Nazim replies, sounding dazed. The Mandalorian smirks behind his helmet.

_(_ * _pronounced: Kee-PAR-jai; translation: “No problem. Don't mention it”)_

“Don’t be long,” she warns, and the Mandalorian watches her walk away. She sends her husband an affectionate glare before exiting the cantina.

Nazim nods then slowly turns to him. “Where were we? Oh, yes. Princess Talia retiring. She’s leaving the Clans in good hands, has since she got back from Concord Dawn.” He cocks a dark eyebrow at his last patron. “You really did come at a good time, Mando. There’s a ceremony—the day after tomorrow—that’ll show her handing the reins over to her replacement. Make things official. You should come!” he says reaching over to give him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “It’ll be a farewell-celebration festival.”

Of course, the Mandalorian is planning to see Talia. Stars, that is the reason why he came to Onderon in the first place, but he is not going to tell that to a gossiper like Nazim. No matter how jolly the bartender is.

“I think I will,” he says before digging into a pocket and sliding some credits across the counter. He watches his host’s blue eyes widen at the money. “Thanks for the info. I appreciate it. Onderon does sound like a good place to settle.”

“Oh, thank you!” Nazim enthusiastically replies as he claims his credits. “And anytime, Mando. If you want more news,” he adds before sending him a conspiratorial wink, “then I’m your guy.”

“Perfect.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

Mid-morning brings a pleasant day with people bustling about their streets and neighborhoods, and the bounty hunter is wandering around a Mandalorian district in Iziz. Strapped to his back, safely tucked in the stiff backpack he bought during one of their stops, is the child, giggling at the new sights passing him by.

After breakfast, his ward had taken it upon his little self to go exploring in the hangar, unsupervised. The Mandalorian knew the child was sick of being stuck inside the _Crest_ , so he decided to chance taking the little womp rat out in public—which is why he chose this side of the city. He just hopes the Mandos here are like the ones he had grown up with: discreet and disinterested in who or what may be traveling with him. But judging from the quick glances sent his way, they seem to be more intrigued with him and his silver armor than the green, pointy-eared alien he is hauling.

The buildings in the district look like the rest of Iziz with roof-covered houses and pillared entrances. But what stands out to him are the Fighting Circles that he comes across. So far, he has counted three, all embedded in the ground with loose dirt filling up each one. They are tucked away in between buildings, bleeding into the alleyways. He can imagine that crowds, eager to watch a challenge, have had the tendency to spill onto the busy streets.

He notices the businesses around the area and spots forges and smithies, both emanating heat and fiery breaths; cantinas; enclosed weapon stores and open-aired food markets; even scrap yards. It seems the Mandos living here are quite content having found everyday jobs, and the bounty hunter feels his muscles tense as his sharp eyes survey this familiar yet strange branch of his culture. He is unsure if he envies them and their normal lives or if he is disgusted at how lazy and soft they appear to him right now. Having grounded their nomadic inclinations with roots and permanent walls, they have settled in one place, in one System. They allowed themselves to become influenced by others so much that some of their more sacred traditions have been discarded or lost. He blinks at every Mando, man or woman, not wearing a helmet; his gaze automatically drops to the pavement below before he realizes that their doctrines on this subject differ from his.

But as he strides deeper in this district, he can feel something stirring within him, a sense of calm and compatibility that he has not felt in years. To walk amongst his own Creed again, to see them thriving and enjoying life, to know that his culture’s survival is not an impossible dream—it gives him . . . hope. Perhaps his Tribe can find a planet where they, too, can prosper just like these Dxun Clans.

A loud cheer pierces through the air, tearing him from his thoughts. Off to his right, he spies a fairly large crowd huddled between two cantinas. Figuring a Fighting Circle is lodged in the middle, he tries to go around it, but more people are lured to the ruckus, steering him closer to the spectacle.

Before he knows it, he finds himself wedged between armor and leather. The sound of grunts and metal hitting metal reaches his ears, confirming his suspicions: it is indeed a Fighting Circle. Behind him, the child oohs at the crowd, and the Mandalorian cranes his neck so he can see just how fascinating this fight is. He catches quick glimpses of two bulky figures clad in Mandalorian armor. From their body shapes, he identifies them as men. One reminds him of a walking tank, wearing black plating over bulging muscles. He takes a swing at his opponent who is donning armor painted in deep orange. The black-armored man is too slow in his attack, for his rival dodges the punch and quickly delivers one of his own.

Next to him a rough female voice, muffled beneath a Beskar helmet, cheers loudly. “ _K’oyacyi_ ¹, Dolmann! _Nynir kaysh_ ²!”

_(_ ¹ _pronounced: Koy-AH-shee, can mean: “Hang in there”)_

_(_ ² _pronounced: nee-NEER kaysh, translation: “Hit him”)_

Believing he can use this crowd as a tool to get information, the bounty hunter glances at the woman beside him. She is about his height but thinner. Her armor is a dull gray with thick spikes stemming from her gauntlets and shoulder coverings. He notices her Clan signet is a Zakkeg, a rare predator native to Dxun known for its huge size and armored body.

“Which one are you rooting for?” he casually asks his sister-Mandalorian.

“Black armor,” she shouts above the cheers, her accent slanted. “Got twenty credits on him! What ’bout ye, mate?”

“Just got here.”

The woman turns to him, and from the way she tilts her head to the side he knows she spots the child strapped to his back. Much to his approval she does not comment on the funny-looking alien. Instead, she says, “Haven’t seen ye on t’is side of t’e neighborhood. Checkin’ out better livin’ arrangements?”

“You can say that,” he raises his gravelly voice. “What’s the fight about?”

She snorts. “Does it matter? Honestly, it’s not really a fight. Jus’ a trainin’ session. But t’at doesn’t mean I can’t earn a few credits on who’s t’e better fighter.”

At that moment, the crowd oohs excitedly. The bounty hunter goes on his tiptoes just in time to see Dolmann, the Mando in black armor, knock his opponent flat on his back. He is about to stomp on his orange-clad rival until his feet are kicked out from under him by his rival which earns a groan from the crowd, including the woman next to the bounty hunter. All the people around him press their bodies closer together, trying to get a better view.

“Looks more intense than a training session,” he remarks.

“Yeah, those two get like t’at.”

He offers her a gloved hand and says, “Traxell.” He may as well use the name that Talia had christened him back on Cholganna. No way he is going to let his real one slip, not even in a metropolis like Iziz.

“Clae,” she replies, giving his hand an abrupt shake.

“Quite a crowd,” he yells over another rumble of shouts and applause.

“Eh, t’is is nothin’,” Clae shares, leaning closer to him so he can hear her better. “Not compared ta t’e one last week. A Quarren named Newik had a beef with a fancy lieutenant from t’e Temple.”

“It wasn’t a Lieutenant Lance, was it?” he asks, skepticism painting his tone.

Clae lets out a cackle. “Got it in one. Mate of yours?”

“An acquaintance.”

“I’m sure you’re being modest,” she says, elbowing him good-naturedly. “He’s t’e Viceroy’s offspring, ye know.”

“I know.”

The crowd roars with cheers and groans, and the bounty hunter sees that Dolmann is winning the fight. He has his orange opponent trapped in a choke hold, and soon, the other man yields, slapping an armored hand on Dolmann’s shoulder. The Mando clad in black armor releases his rival and throws his hands in the air in victory. Most of the audience shouts and applauds him, and the bounty hunter can hear Clae laughing with glee at the outcome. He watches the people begin to disperse while others pass around credits. In the Circle, Dolmann shakes hands with his orange opponent before the latter disappears into the crowd.

“Thank ye!” Clae says to someone, and the bounty hunter catches her stuff a pouch of credits in her pocket.

Not wanting to let her go, he asks, “What do you think of the new Viceroy?”

The woman shrugs her shoulders covered in thick spikes. “He’s not bad. Honorable. Good family from Dxun. He’s loyal ta both t’e Clans ’n’ Onderon.”

At that moment, Dolmann announces that drinks are on him. Although it is just barely noon, which is still early for the bounty hunter to consume alcohol, the hour does not seem to stop the remaining viewers from partaking in this celebration. They cheer a loud thanks to Dolmann for his generosity, and less than a minute later, waiters from the nearby cantinas carry cups of spirits on trays. Their customers eagerly grab a drink as the alcohol passes by, and some of the liquid spills from the tankards.

Beside him, Clae removes her dark gray helmet and seizes a cup of spirits for herself. As she raises her cup to Dolmann, the bounty hunter quickly studies her. Clae is a brunette in her early thirties. On the left side of her head, her hair is short and straight while the right looks like a buzz-cut which was probably shaved off completely at some point. Her oval-shaped face is olive-toned, and he spies a scar on her upper lip, like a knife cut. She has hazel eyes, brown eyebrows, a splash of freckles on her cheeks, and a button-nose. He notices that she has ear-piercings up and down her right ear only. The studs and small loops of the earrings are not expensive-looking to him, yet they seem to “fill up” the area where she had shaved her head.

Clae takes a swig of her spirits and empties her cup in two, huge gulps. A trickle of the bronze liquid runs down the corner of her mouth, but she wipes it away with her gloved fingers.

“Viceroy Ryk’ken seemed distracted to me when I last saw him,” he casually remarks to her.

Again, she shrugs her shoulders. “He probably had a lot on ’is mind. He _is_ a father ’n’ an important leader in t’e Clans. Pretty good hunter, too,” she tells him while handing her empty cup to a passing waiter. “He brought down a mad Gharzr terrorizin’ Dxun during ’is last visit about five months ago. They showed it all o’r t’e holo-net around here. It was amazin’.”

He nods, trying not to feel impressed. From what he remembers reading about the Gharzrs, they are called Dxunian stalkers. The four-legged beasts are generally covered in bronze scales, sometimes brick-red. A line of brown, stiff hair runs up from their muzzle all the way down to their twin stinging tails. Known for their stealthy hunting tactics, the Gharzrs are vicious predators and difficult to hunt. If Dacob Ryk’ken was able to terminate a Gharzr that was mad, then he is an excellent hunter indeed.

“How’s he in the politics department?” he queries.

A small frown forms on Clae’s lips. “Not sure. But he does what he’s told, _t'at_ I know.”

“He’s not like his predecessor, huh?” he observes light-heartedly.

“Who, Talia?” she double-checks. “I doubt anyone can be a good Clan Leader like ’er in a while. But Dacob’s a fair man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s learned a thing or two from ’er. They’re best mates, ye know.”

He had figured they were close, but _that_ close? It seems hearing it out loud and realizing their relationship is well-known startle him more than he expected.

“They are?”

“From what I know, yeah. T’ier families go way back. Between ye ’n’ meh,” Clae admits, her voice lowered, “I’m shocked they haven’t tied t’e knot. I mean, they’re _always_ together. But people say she won’t marry, him or any Lord or commander they push ’er way. As if they would want ’er now,” she mutters under her breath.

“Ruined reputation?” he prods, suspecting this may lead to the topic of his friend’s Mandalorian lovers, which is something he would not mind understanding better.

Clae lets out a snort as ugly as an Eopie’s. “In t'e Onderonians’ eyes? Yep.”

“But not in our Clans’?”

“Come on, Traxell,” she says with a knowing-looking. “We don’t really care about pretty reputations, now do we?”

“No,” he honestly replies. “But Onderonians do. Especially if she has a string of lovers across Iziz, huh?”

The woman shakes her head in disdain. “They sure are finicky about stuff like t'at, aren’t they?”

He nods, as if he has lived with these people all his life.

“But if ye ask meh,” Clae adds, “Onderonians need ta loosen up ’n’ live a little more. Or, they should jus’ mind t’ier own darn business! What Talia does ’n’ who she does it with is none of t’ier concern. She can’t help it if she’s gorgeous ’n’ gets tangled in t’e bedsheets. But she’s a lucky woman,” she snickers, a gleam of amusement in her hazel eyes.

The bounty hunter resists the urge to shuffle his feet. This subject is not proving to be as enlightening as he had wanted.

“Her family—from both sides, I understand—are distinguished,” he comments. “Wouldn’t Talia want to at least have a kid to continue her line?”

“Eh, she doesn’t need ta.” Clae waves a hand, as if dismissing the matter. “She’s got enough relatives from t’e Dewans ’n’ t’e Kexes ta keep on goin’ through t’e years. There’s nay way they’re goin’ ta be wiped out any time soon. Trust meh.”

_If she has that much family,_ he thinks, _then why’d she seem so lonely?_

When Clae glances up at the sun, her earrings reflect the light and shine in the bounty hunter’s eyes. “Well, gotta run,” she announces before offering him a hand. “Nice meetin’ ye, Traxell.”

“Likewise,” he says as he gives her hand a quick yet firm shake.

Clae slaps her helmet back on, sends him a nod, and mingles in with the street’s afternoon throng. Behind him, he hears the baby lightly snore. He can imagine his ward’s pointy ears sticking out of the backpack and his green nose wrinkling in sleep. The picture makes him smirk to himself.

Instead of heading back to the _Crest_ , he decides to keep on exploring the Mandalorian district and procure some food for the two of them. If he knows the baby, lunch will be the first thing on his mind the moment he wakes up.


	2. The Angel of Onderon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I should post the next chapter up early because I have a busy day tomorrow. Enjoy!

Chapter II: The Angel of Onderon

His third day in Iziz is proving to be more exciting than when he arrived. The streets are filled with an endless flow of Onderonian and Mandalorian particles, drifting to the heart of the city like an energetic river of life. Today is when he will see Talia again—him along with practically everyone else in Iziz. He had found out that the ceremony where she will be officially handing over her duties as Clan Leader of Onderon to her successor will be taking place at the Yolahn Square, which is located on the east side of the Unifar Temple.

He has prepared for this day by making sure the child woke up bright and early. The green alien had scowled at being shaken from sleep at the crack of dawn, but his frown slowly disappeared when his guardian allowed him to wander around the deserted hangar. The child ran up and down the stairs, chasing a few of the DUM-series pit droids working there. Normally, the Mandalorian would discourage the clumsy machines from getting within three feet of his ward, but he made an exception today. He _needed_ the child to spend a good portion of his energy so he will take an extra-long nap and will not notice his guardian’s absence.

So, following a few hours of exercise and exploration, the child began to rub his big, brown eyes. The Mandalorian had taken that as a cue to feed his charge, an action that woke up the little one again. Afterwards, he allowed the child to return to playing around the hangar and do pretty much anything he wanted. If the gifted alien suspected the reasons why his guardian was behaving uncharacteristically generous, he did not show it.

Long story short, the kid is currently sleeping on the _Crest_ , exhausted, filled with food, and out of the Mandalorian’s hair. He figures his ward will not wake up for another four or five hours. Who needs a babysitter when he found a way to do things in between the kid’s naptimes?

He strides through the paved streets, the weight of Talia’s ring dangling from his cord necklace feeling heavier with every step. People hustle around him, and all of the social classes are dressed in their finest outfits. The beadings on their clothes and headdresses shine in the sun; their fabrics shimmer with either wealth or style. But what catches his attention are the beautiful women mingling in with the crowd like exotic angels.

They are wearing jewelry everywhere: on their wrists, in their hair, around their necks, across their ears, and even around their ankles. The sun shines down on the pieces, giving the women a heavenly aura. Seeing so much jewelry reminds him of Talia. She had about ten pieces when they first met on Cholganna, but as he now looks at the Onderonian women, he realizes that she was not as liberal in wearing jewelry as they currently are. And here he thought _she_ was being frivolous with her bracelets and rings.

He is not sure if it is the jewelry that enhances the women’s beauty or if it is their clothing. Some wear long tunics with billowy trousers underneath, just like Talia’s velvety, green attire on Cholganna. Then, there are others who have donned gowns that reach to their ankles. But all of the clothes, including their dainty slippers and shawls, are dyed in vibrant hues ranging from the first color of the rainbow to the last. He even sees more than a handful of women wearing two-piece outfits that display the smooth skin of their midriffs.

Their hairstyles vary. Most, it seems, like keeping their long tresses down or half-up; their hairs sway with their movements, reminding him of Omera and her dark tresses. She would have blended in well here in Iziz with her loose hair, tanned skin, and attractive figure.

Thinking of the beautiful widow he left on Sorgan makes him wonder how she is doing. He hopes she is not too sad—or angry—that he had moved on from her planet. Though he misses her charming company and lovely smile, he would not trade them for the danger he was placing her and her village in if he stayed behind and settled there. No, it was best that he left, and he does not regret it.

His feet take him down a familiar path, and soon, he is approaching Boma’s Brews again. He has not been to the cantina since his first night in the city. Nazim is standing outside his establishment’s door, decked in his finest clothes shaded in several hues of greens and browns. Clinging to his loose trousers and long vest-like tunic is a little girl about four or five-years-old whom the Mandalorian assumes is the bar owner’s daughter. Or maybe his granddaughter, considering how young she looks and how . . . well, “old” Nazim seems to him. The little girl has bronze, curly hair and fair skin, physical traits undoubtedly inherited from Mila.

When Nazim sees the Mandalorian, he smiles widely and waves him over. He nods and weaves his way to the closed cantina.

“Hello there, my new Mando friend!” Nazim says, his Onderonian accent making his words roll of his tongue like marbles. “I was wondering when I was going to see you again. Glad you decided to stick around. How are you liking Iziz so far?”

“It’s very nice here,” the Mandalorian replies.

“I’ll take it you’re heading to Yolahn Square like the rest of us, huh? Why don’t you join me? I’m meeting Mila over there. She took the rest of the brood,” he good-naturedly reveals, his blue eyes sparkling. “This is my daughter, Luna.”

The bounty hunter glances at the little girl, and his eyes are met with clear blue ones, just like her father’s. Luna blinks at him, but he does not see fear in her gaze like most children have whenever they look at him.

“She’s our surprise baby,” Nazim tells him as he lifts Luna onto his broad shoulders. She releases a surprised squeal and holds onto her father’s hair tied at the back of his head. “Our second youngest was eight when Luna came along. You should’ve seen Mila’s reaction when she figured out that she was pregnant again. Let’s just say, I was in the doghouse for a couple of weeks.”

Nazim barks out a jolly laugh as he motions for the Mandalorian to follow him. He walks a little behind the bar owner while Nazim meanders their way through the river of people.

“And Luna here came early and fast, didn’t you, baby?” The father pats her legs which he is holding onto. “We were visiting Mila’s side of the family on Dxun at the time. And that’s why we named her ‘Luna.’”

Underneath his helmet the Mandalorian smiles at the quaint story. He glances up to where Luna is sitting atop her father’s shoulders. The sun highlights her bronze hair like a halo as she points at the fascinating scenery beneath her. Nazim names the people or things that she is referring to, his voice gentle and warm. The Mandalorian remembers his own father putting him in that same position as Luna once upon a time. While he towered over crowds in the marketplace, he had felt that his father was the strongest man alive with his solid shoulders and firm hands wrapped around his short legs.

“Keep close to me, _ner burc’ya_ *,” Nazim says to him. “We’re now at the far end of the Malgan Market. It’s going to be packed with people, and it’ll be easy to get lost. Did you know,” he keeps chattering on, “that during the Clone War you couldn’t walk five feet without running into a droid?

“It’s almost three miles from here all the way to Yolahn Square. The vendors are going to make a speeder-load of credits today. Sometimes I wish my cantina was closer to the Square, but—”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

“Onderon joined the Separatists, right?” the Mandalorian interrupts as he squeezes between two, long-necked Ithorians arguing with each other in their grunt-like language.

“Yeah, not our proudest moment,” Nazim confides. “Excuse me! I just want to slip by! The king at the time, Ramsis Dendup,” he continues, “didn’t want to get involved. We _were_ part of the Republic, but with the war going on, lots of planets were forced to choose between the Confederacy and the Republic.”

“But Onderon’s so close to the Core Worlds,” the Mandalorian states. “I figured you guys would stay with the Republic, no questions asked.”

“If we did, then the Republic would’ve dragged our people in the war,” the cantina owner replies, stopping for a moment. He is waiting for a large group of Qarrens riding domesticated farm animals called Tee-musses cross the Market’s intersection.

“King Ramsis tried to stay neutral,” Nazim says as the herd passes them by. “But our Senator ended up pulling some strings around the government and the aristos, and she had us join the Confederacy. Our King was replaced by someone from the Separatists—I don’t remember his name—and was put under house-arrest at the Temple.”

The Mandalorian walks around a small group huddled in a tight circle, but after he does, Nazim has disappeared. He searches to his left and right, his eyes scanning the crowds. Then, he looks up and tries to spot Luna and her bronze, curly hair. A few more seconds pass before he sees her waving at him. Her blue eyes gleam, and an adorable smile stretches her pink lips.

As he gets closer to her, he can hear Luna giggling. She is still pointing at him and shouts out, “ _K’olar_ ¹! _Buir_ ,” she calls down to Nazim, tugging at his grey-streaked black hair. “ _Ogir, Buir_ ²! _Mando staabi ogir_ ³!”

 _(_ ¹ _pronounced: koh-LAR; translation: “Come here! Get over here at once!”_

² _pronounced: OH-gir boo-EER; translation: “There, father!”_

³ _pronounced: MAHN-do STAH-bee OH-gir; translation: “Mando right there!”)_

Nazim spins around and cranes his neck over the crowd. The Mandalorian sees the moment the bar owner spots him, for Nazim smiles in relief.

“I thought we lost you, uh . . .” The man scratches his head, his eyes squinting as if he is trying to remember something. “I just realized I don’t know your name.”

“Traxell,” the Mandalorian answers, swallowing a chuckle.

“Well, Trax, I’m glad I know it now! Good eye, Luna.” Nazim affectionally pats his daughter’s legs. “She’s a sharp one. Her eyes are better than most kids around here. Mila’s thinking of having her start Mandalorian training when she turns eight, but I’m not so sure.”

“Have any of your kids gone through the _verd’goten_ *?” he asks about the rite of passage. In his culture, thirteen-year-olds who have undergone Mandalorian training for five years have their skills tested before being declared as adults in their society, and then they are given the chance to swear an oath to the Creed.

 _(_ * _pronounced: vaird-GOH-tehn, known as the rite of passage)_

“My two oldest. A son and daughter,” Nazim replies as they continue to walk through the crowded Market. “And my second youngest will be finishing his training in a few more months.”

“How many kids do you have?” the Mandalorian wonders aloud, careful to keep his voice curious rather than surprised.

“Six. Four boys and two girls. Luna’s our last one—which Mila’s happy about,” the proud father chuckles. “My middle kids prefer living an Onderonian life like me. And I have five grandkids, Trax!” He beams at the Mandalorian.

“You have a big family,” he observes, feeling genuinely happy for Nazim.

He raises his eyes up and can see the Unifar Temple growing bigger with each step they take. He figures they are about half a mile away from it, which means they should be reaching Yolahn Square very soon. However, with all these people wanting to watch the ceremony like him and Nazim, he doubts he will be able to lodge himself close enough to the Temple’s steps to see Talia.

As he and his small company get closer to their destination, he notices that the crowd has swelled with Mandalorians. In fact, there are more people from his Creed here than he has seen in years. They are all wearing armor of different colors and sizes, and he appreciates that a majority of them have donned their helmets. To see so many of them—hundreds—walking around without worry and fear fills the inside of his chest with warmth. He can hear comments casually spoken in Mando’a, and his nose picks up the famous aroma of _ne’tra gal_ *.

 _(_ * _pronounced: NAY-trah gahl; significance: known as a black ale, sweet and almost spicy)_

A flash of cranberry catches the corner of his eye, and the Mandalorian turns to his left. There, he spies an Onderonian woman with lightly tanned skin and long, wavy hair the color of chestnut. She is wearing a cranberry-dyed, two-piece outfit, her midriff bare and attractively thin. Her blouse and skirt are covered in beads as dark as rubies with gold trim at the edges and hemlines. A wispy-looking sash drapes around her neck and floats in the air as she gracefully strolls through the throng with some friends. She is wearing gold necklaces, bracelets, rings, and anklets, all of which make her glow in the sun. Her smile is breathtaking, and the Mandalorian cannot stop himself from staring at her with his mouth partly open. Now, _that_ is probably one of the most stunning women he has ever seen, for she is a goddess of beauty and grace.

“I’d stop drooling over her if I were you,” Nazim’s voice breaks through the fog surrounding him.

He blinks then realizes that he had stopped walking. The bar own is standing right next to him, and when he turns to Nazim, he is greeted with a sad yet understanding smile. The back of the Mandalorian’s neck heats up at being caught mesmerized by a lovely stranger.

“She’s married,” the other man reveals, nodding at the goddess wearing her cranberry clothes.

“You know her?” He hates how dry his throat is right now.

“No. Why would I? Have you seen how big this city is?”

“Then how do you know?” the Mandalorian asks, wincing at how accusatory he sounds.

“Her hands. Look. What do you see?”

“Jewelry,” he bluntly answers.

“Only married women living in the System wear _that_ kind of jewelry.”

The Mandalorian turns his attention back to the Onderonian beauty and searches for “that kind of jewelry” Nazim is referring to. Upon further study, he realizes that both of the woman’s wrists have a cranberry-colored cord around them. Connected to each of the cords are golden flowers, with red centers, linked together to make an elaborate handpiece that stretches across her knuckles and loops around her fingers like rings.

 _So, that tells people she’s taken,_ he thinks as he tests this idea by glancing at the women around him.

The bracelet-and-rings jewelry pieces now stand out to him like splashes of cold water. Of course, not every single female in the Malgan Market is wearing them, but his brain cannot stop from identifying which woman is married and which is not. Then, he thinks of Mila, Nazim’s wife. The first night he was in their cantina, he had noticed a similar style of jewelry on her hands, but he had dismissed it. Now, he knows their significance.

“How can you identify married men?” he asks Nazim.

“With these,” his companion replies, patting at his right bicep and wrist.

Secured around both areas are thick, leather straps, like bracelets. Just as he saw two nights ago, the straps have a jungle vine design engraved in them with silver beading. He remembers that Nazim’s had matched Mila’s in color, material, and design, and since the jewelry pieces mean they are married, no wonder they resemble one another’s.

“There’s her husband,” Nazim says, breaking into his thoughts.

Quickly, the Mandalorian looks back at the crimson-clothed beauty and does indeed see her spouse. His eyes move over to the man’s wrists and biceps, and he realizes that the woman’s husband is not only wearing the marriage bracelets on his right arm but also on his left. The bracelets are made of leather, embellished with a copper wiring twisted and bent to make a simple yet expensive design.

“Are Onderonians the only ones who do this?” he asks Nazim before turning on his heel, away from the married couple.

“Mandos, too. We believe marriages are meant to last a lifetime, like the Bomas and their mates.”

As Nazim chatters on about marriage ceremonies, the Mandalorian tunes him out so he can study the people from his Creed. In a matter of seconds, he sees arm- and wrist-bands made of leather or precious metals generally strapped to their right arms, just like the Onderonians. However, the men and women with fancier armor are wearing these jewelry pieces on both arms.

“Are _you_ looking for a marriage partner?” Nazim asks him.

The question makes the Mandalorian come to an abrupt halt. He blinks at the man before his gaze shifts up to Luna, who is also staring at him with curious eyes. There is no way this five-year-old actually knows what they are talking about.

“No,” he gruffly replies.

“Well, you should think about it, Trax,” Nazim remarks as he continues to lead him through the crowd. “I haven’t travelled out of Onderon before, so I guess you shouldn’t take my word for it, but I think Onderonian women are the most beautiful women in the galaxy.”

“Says the man who married a Mandalorian,” he quips.

“Hey, I was talking about my mother and sisters!” Nazim barks out a laugh so loud that people glance his way and step aside. The Mandalorian shakes his head, amused and slightly unimpressed.

They continue to walk in silence, yet the Market is anything but quiet. He can hear trumpets and other woodwinds competing against the tinkling of cymbals and the pounding of drums. The Market opens up, and he figures they have now entered Yolahn Square. Off to his right, he spots a nine-piece band. About half of its members are made up of Biths who are standing on a raised platform, blowing woodwinds, while the rest of the musicians have their feet firmly planted on the pavement. People are gathered around the band, swaying with the music, but according to the Mandalorian’s ears, the melodies sound more like white noise accompanied by laughter rather than inspirational music.

The royal palace looms over Yolahn Square and the people gathering here. Large screens, stationed in the Square’s left and right sides, float above the crowd, giving viewers a better and closer look at the empty steps of the Unifar Temple. The air is thick with breaths and wind heated by the sun. The Mandalorian finds himself pressing up against Ithorians, fellow Mandalorians, Qarrens, and who knows what other type of alien or humanoid here. They are crammed together like fruits stacked in a crate, and he is glad he left the child asleep on the _Crest_. The little one getting lost in this mass would be a complete nightmare.

“I see Mila and my family,” Nazim announces excitedly. “Good eye, Luna. Hey, Trax. Wanna join us?”

“Can’t,” the Mandalorian shouts over the music and voices. When he feels a twinge of sadness that he must part company with the jolly cantina owner, he pushes it aside. “I have to meet up with a friend,” he explains, trying to keep his voice low enough for only Nazim to hear him.

“I didn’t know you know people here,” his companion remarks. “But okay! Swing by Boma’s if you get the chance. And bring your friend, too! We can talk politics. Or whatever you want, Trax. Okay?”

The Mandalorian nods at him. As Nazim gets swallowed into the crowd, Luna twists her body around and waves at him. She gives him a shy smile, and he cannot stop himself from waving back at her. But once her bronze hair and sunny halo disappear from his sights, he surges through the ocean of armor and beaded clothing like a ship maneuvering through an asteroid field. If he wants to see Talia with his own eyes and not through a screen, he needs to get closer to the Temple’s steps and find higher ground.

Music resounds across the festive atmosphere, and he bumps into more people than he can count as he tries to maneuver to the right. He notices that Yolahn Square had been designed at a slight incline with rectangular designs decorating its long borders. Stationed beside the décor on each side are about thirty pillars roughly eight feet tall, “reminding” viewers of the minor drop onto the pavement below. He figures not a lot of people would be willing to stand very close to the edges, meaning he can slide in there without receiving too many glares.

After a few minutes of muttering “excuse me” and “coming through,” he finally reaches the fifth pillar from the Unifar Temple and fits himself amongst a group of Mandalorians laughing and chatting with each other in muffled voices. Their armors, he notices, are painted in various patterns of purple and black—which, he knows, signifies that they belong to Clan Kex.

Figuring they are from Dxun, he sends them a friendly nod. Some whom he has caught their eye return the greeting, but they continue joking with one another. He catches a few phrases in Mando’a like “idiot,” a handful of curses, “hush,” and “How are you?”, but he ignores them and their lively conversation. He is, after all, not here to make friends.

A loud trumpet blares across the crowd, and a Mando standing next to him shouts out, “ _Mar’e_ *! Took ’em long enough!”

 _(_ * _pronounced: MAH-ray, translation: “At last!”, an expression of relief.)_

A wealthy-looking procession emerges from the Unifar Temple with guards walking in front and behind them with lances in their hands and blasters strapped to their belts. He recognizes the Royal Guard with their dull-gray armor; burgundy-colored tunics underneath; and helmets covering only their heads, leaving their faces exposed. While they are leading the group, Mandalorian guards are protecting the rear, their armor forged in _Beskar_ * and painted in random colors unlike their uniformed counterparts.

 _(_ * _pronounced: BESK-gar, translation: “Mandalorian iron”)_

While the massive crowd claps and cheers, the Mandalorian simply crosses his arms and studies the procession. He recognizes the members of the royal family with the young king, Ridha, taking the lead. Behind the fifteen-year-old boy is his father, Lord Kavan, looking every bit a Mandalorian in his brick-red and black armor embellished with gold edges around his plating and helmet—which he has tucked underneath his arm.

He feels a sense of pride at seeing other members from his Creed making up the group. From their scratched armor and chipped paint and from the way they carry themselves with authority and even danger, he assumes these men and women must be Clan Chiefs and Elders. Their helmets are still on, and he wonders how old they are. To reach an older age is not only a privilege but is also quite a distinction for Mandalorians.

As the members of the procession descend a flight of stairs and take their places on the second set of steps, a petite figure, clad in dark purple, catches his attention. He immediately recognizes it as belonging to none other than Talia. His back straightens as he surveys her, and he is glad he is close enough to see her for himself. Her hair is down, which is the first time he has seen it loose; she had always tied it in a long, single braid. Flowing behind her back in waves her hair looks as dark and as rich as he remembered, and even from this distance, he can see thick braids—her trademark—hiding in her locks.

She is wearing an expensive-looking purple tunic, and the color was undoubtedly chosen on purpose since he knows that Clan Kex had adopted that specific hue. The tunic has long-sleeves, and its hemline reaches down to her ankles. In the front, starting at her waist, is a slit that would be considered inappropriate if she was not wearing a pair of trousers underneath. The trousers are also purple and are peppered with a simple design embroidered in gold. Down below, she is wearing knee-length, black boots.

Though Talia may appear to be Onderonian, the light gray breastplate she is wearing is a dead giveaway to the other culture she is closely tied to. That, and the smooth-surfaced helmet hanging from her belt. Also attached to the leather accessory is a pewter vibrosword with a black hilt which he does not recognize as her personal rapier. This weapon has a thicker blade embellished with thin, ebony vines that look like sharp thorns ready to plunge its points into the sword’s next victim. He figures it must be some kind of ceremonial sword belonging to the Clan Leader of Onderon.

Stretched across Talia’s front and tied at her side is a sash, its material and color reminding him of mist. The sash’s edges are lined with black, and he can spy the vines and thorns design from her sword also stitched in the middle of the shimmering material. Dangling from her right shoulder, in a loop, is a set of braids, black, silver, and dark gray. Colonel Ryk’ken—whom he sees in the procession, standing behind Talia—had worn braids on his shoulder back on Cholganna, and the bounty hunter is still not sure of their significance.

All in all, Talia is lovelier than he has ever seen her. He remembers what Nazim had said about her, that she would have made a good queen. And for some reason, the Mandalorian agrees. She looks like she could be one, from her graceful posture, her expensive clothing, and most importantly, her regal demeanor. But even if she was in direct line to the throne, he knows she would step down from being queen. She is the people’s advocate, the common folk’s protector. He knows from first-hand experience she would be more comfortable exploring the jungle rather than living in the lap of luxury.

As King Ridha steps forward to address the crowd, the people cheer. While the boy waves at them almost awkwardly, the Mandalorian notices that Talia, who is stationed off to the side, seems much more comfortable standing in front of thousands of men and women.

“People of the Japrael System!” Ridha opens up, his voice surprisingly deep for a fifteen-year-old. His audience applauds and shouts their approval. “We’ve gathered here to commemorate the accomplishments and service of someone very important to us—to _all_ of us.”

The Mandalorian watches as the boy-king sweeps his arm across the crowd and turns his body to his right. He stops when he meets Talia’s gaze and motions for her to take a step forward, which she does.

“Lady Talia Kex of House Dewan, the Angel of Onderon,” Ridha introduces, and the people cheer and chant her title.

For a minute or so, the young monarch talks about his second cousin’s service to both Onderon and Dxun, but the Mandalorian tunes him out. He notices Talia turn her head to survey the crowd before her, and when she glances in his general direction, he uncrosses his arms and feels his spine straighten. He does not need to use his helmet to zoom-in on her face because his eyes lock onto hers like a magnet drawn to its polar opposite. Though he is surrounded by countless other Mandalorians, he gets the feeling—no, he _knows_ that Talia sees him, too. What solidifies this belief is the soft smile that graces her dark pink lips; it is a smile he has seen on her while they were on Cholganna. It could be meant for the crowd, but again, he _knows_ it is for him. He cannot explain how or why he is so certain; it is simply a gut feeling that defies logic.

For some reason, he sends her a low bow, his upper body subtly leaning forward. Her smile brightens just a little before she returns his acknowledgment with a dignified nod, which could also be directed at the people. He gives her a half-smile and is slightly disappointed when she turns her attention back to Ridha.

“I can talk about her accomplishments all day long,” the young king continues, “but I know we have a festival to begin, so I will end with this.” His audience chuckles at his comment, and some whistle in jest. Ridha waits a moment for the joke to pass before seriously stating, “I am proud that her blood runs through my veins, that she has shared her wisdom of leadership and experiences with me. I hope to be as great a leader to both Onderon and Dxun as she!”

The crowd loudly applauds in agreement. Ridha turns to his left and waves at someone to join him on stage. “And now, I give you High Chief Torlack Kex of Dxun,” he finishes.

More clapping echoes in the Square, and the Mandalorians that the bounty hunter is standing with hoot and holler with glee and respect as the Chief briefly shakes hands with the Onderonian king and takes his place. Torlack, whom he assumes is probably Talia’s paternal uncle, then gives a short speech. His voice is painted with a slanted accent, and the man sounds old and wise. As he praises Talia of her protective nature towards the Clans, the bounty hunter is about to also tune out Torlack until he hears a hint of emotion coloring the older man’s tone. Not even his helmet can hide the fact that he is more than pleased with her service.

“You will be greatly missed in our Dxunian Council,” the Chief says, turning to Talia. “And I do not have enough words to tell you how proud I am of you, my dear niece.”

 _So, I was right,_ the Mandalorian thinks as the crowd applauds. _He_ is _her uncle. He’s probably her rotten father’s younger brother._

“At this moment,” Torlack concludes as he waves Talia closer to him, “it is time for King Ridha and myself to relieve you of your position as Clan Leader of Onderon.”

A hush encompasses Yolahn Square as Torlack and Ridha remove Talia’s ceremonial sword, her misty-colored sash, and the cluster of three braids from her shoulder. After they have freed her of these items, the Mandalorian watches them hand the symbols of leadership back to Talia. They nod at her, as if such a simple thing releases her from her duties, and then they step aside, leaving her to stand alone in front of the thousands of people who have gathered together just to watch this monumental event.

Out of the blue, someone loudly roars, “To the Angel of Onderon!” The crowd bursts with shouts and applause. The Mandalorians, he notices, pound their breastplates with their arms, their heavy gauntlets slamming against hard Beskar. Meanwhile, Talia responds by sending them a grateful smile and a noble bow.

“Thank you, my Chief,” she says, nodding at Torlack. Her elegant accent is as clear as he remembered, and he can hear a stronger hint of an Onderonian accent in her voice. “My king and my people. Believe me when I say that it has been my honor and privilege to serve you.”

The audience whistles and claps before eliminating all noise so they can hear her better. Even the bounty hunter perks up his ears, not wanting to miss whatever speech she has planned.

“I’ve been told,” she remarks, “that many are disappointed of my resignation. But as mentioned before, I have dedicated my life to your service. However,” she breathes out, and he can hear how tired she sounds, “I am not invincible. I regret to say that I can no longer carry this duty, no matter how much I want to.

“Onderonians are blessed with long lives; we’ve been famously known to live one-hundred years. I know I haven’t even reached the halfway point, that I still have a lot of years ahead of me, but I admit I have felt almost two decades chipped from me—like I’m sure most of you have all felt—due to the dark days of the Empire.”

The people mutter in agreement, some shaking their heads.

“The Empire tried to grind both myself and you to the dust,” Talia continues. “But we have survived!” Her audience claps and whoops in victory, and she raises her voice over the enthusiastic shouts. “And it is time for me to step aside and make way for a new era for the Japrael System and for the New Republic!”

About ten seconds pass before the crowd calms down. The Mandalorian cannot help but share a sense of patriotism along with the people here even though he is not native to this planet. He remembers how callous the Empire had been, how unforgiving they were. Relief and hope for a better future swelled within him as he heard news of countless of planets and governments breaking free from Imperial rule. The patriotism he feels here on Onderon is the same practically everywhere else in the galaxy.

“Though I will not be heavily involved in your future,” Talia presses forward, her accent light and gentle, “I will be leaving all of you in the capable hands of our Defender of Dxun.” She gestures towards her replacement decked in his Mandalorian armor and helmet. The man walks forward, and the massive crowd cheers. “Viceroy Dacob Ryk’ken,” she addresses him. “My dear friend and compatriot, I give you charge over our people.”

The bounty hunter watches Ryk’ken bow to her while Ridha and Torlack join Talia in the middle of the stage again. She relinquishes to the men two of the ceremonial items that she has been holding onto and sends Ryk’ken a smile. King Ridha, the misty sash with ebony lining in hand, lays the wispy material across the Viceroy’s broad chest and ties it in a knot at his side. Once he is finished, he nods at Ryk’ken who returns the gesture with a respectful bow.

Ridha steps back, making way for Chief Torlack who then straps the ceremonial vibrosword to the Viceroy’s belt. The wide blade gleams in the sunlight, and its presence at his side looks—to the bounty hunter—as if it adds more weight to Ryk’ken’s shoulders. The two Mandalorians lay their hands on each other’s shoulders before leaning forward so they can press their helmet-covered foreheads together. The gesture reminds him of the greeting Talia had given to Ryk’ken back on Cholganna. And also of the farewell he had shared with her.

Torlack and the Viceroy’s exchange is brief, and soon the Chief steps back and returns to his previous spot behind Talia and Ryk’ken who then face each other, showing their profiles to the quiet audience.

The bounty hunter watches Talia secure the cluster of three braids around the Viceroy’s right shoulder with ease and grace. She gives him a nod which he returns before he removes his helmet. After he secures it under his arm, Talia lays her right hand on his left shoulder. The sun shines down on Ryk’ken’s dark skin and short-cropped hair as he mirrors Talia’s movements. But instead of pressing their foreheads together like Torlack had done with Ryk’ken, Talia opens her mouth to say something else to her best friend.

“Dear Dacob,” she begins. “Protect the Clans and set them first. They are your fourth child and your third parent. But do not forsake Onderon and her people— _that_ is my final piece of advice. Consider them, too, in every decision, for we are two halves of the Japrael System,” she continues, glancing at the thousands of people crammed in the Square. “And we must always work together in harmony if we are to overcome the obstacles that will undeniably come our way. Now,” she says to Ryk’ken, “care for them as I, and may you be granted the wisdom and courage of all the Mand’alors of history to guide you, _ner vod_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair vohd; translation: “my brother”)_

“I am ready,” Ryk’ken solemnly promises.

The two Mandalorians press their foreheads together for a couple seconds as the populace shouts and claps and whistles their approval with abandon. After Talia and Ryk’ken break apart, the latter faces the crowd, a practiced speech more than likely on the tip of his tongue. The bounty hunter is about to turn away and melt into the audience until Ryk’ken calls out to Talia again.

“The Angel of Onderon!”

Curious, the bounty hunter remains where he is while everyone around him lets out another triumphant cry. Ryk’ken motions for Talia to return to the center stage, and she does. When the crowd hushes into a soft buzz, Ryk’ken turns his attention to them.

“Instead of giving you all a speech,” he begins, “I want to make an important announcement. As Viceroy of Dxun and Member of the Clan’s Council, I have been charged with telling you, Talia Kex—” He turns to her. “— _ner vod_ *, that the shame and dishonor placed upon you since you were fifteen have now been removed.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair vohd; translation: “my sister”)_

A small gasp escapes the audience, and before they can utter anything else, Ryk’ken presses on and continues talking to the woman next to him, who stares at her best friend with wide eyes. The bounty hunter feels the corner of his lips twitch upward, and his gut flips with anticipation.

“Your selflessness and dedicated service these long, hard years to the Clans have washed you clean. Your integrity has been restored. And at long last,” the Viceroy warmly declares, “the doors of Dxun are no longer closed to you. You are now able to come home again, Talia Kex.”

The people go berserk with joyful screams, chest-pounding, wild applause, and feet stomping. Instruments blare through the festive atmosphere as drums and cymbals try to drown out one another. The noise is almost deafening. The Mandalorians standing next to the bounty hunter roar with gusto, slapping each other on the back. Someone even does that to him, but he hardly notices because his gaze is focused on the redeemed half-Onderonian, half-Mandalorian woman.

Even from where he is watching her, he can see the look of shock on her diamond-shaped face. Then, she beams at Ryk’ken before wrapping her arms around him in a grateful embrace. When she pulls away, he notices her excited smile has morphed into one that radiates humility and appreciation. He is glad for her; he knows how much she had missed Dxun despite the fact that the Demon Moon is crawling with dangerous, bloodthirsty beasts.

As the royal family and members of their procession flock to Talia, offering her congratulations, the crowd begins to disperse. About half of them are mingling with each other, and the bands scattered throughout the Square start tuning their instruments before unleashing incompatible harmonies simultaneously.

The group of Mandos that he had watched the ceremony with had already disappeared, and he is about to leave, too, until someone places a hand on his arm. He tenses at the touch and is on the verge of ripping himself out of the stranger’s reach but stops himself when he recognizes that the hand belongs to one of the women who had emerged from the palace with Talia. Slowly, he turns himself towards the woman, taking in her lilac clothes and head-covering. Her face is hidden underneath her shawl, and he only sees her brown eyes, which stand out due to the heavy eye-makeup she had applied.

Figuring this a handmaiden to Talia, he forces himself to relax and gives her a curt nod. The woman quickly thrusts something into his gloved hands. He looks at it and finds his fingers wrapped around a circular device, its top-side shaped like a shallow dome. Instinct tells him that it is a holoprojector of some kind; it may also have a communications function.

“Lady Talia wishes for you to have this,” the woman says, her Onderonian accent low enough for only him to hear.

The gift surprises him—not because it is from Talia but because she had sent him something less than an hour after spotting him in the crowd. He finds it hard to believe that she had come up with a plan to reach out to him so quickly. But then, this _is_ Talia he is thinking about. Her brain is as sharp as his, and he should know better than to underestimate her.

“She has a message for you,” the handmaiden continues. “The number two is key, Ordo: two miles far, two hours long, two stories high.”

Her brown eyes implore him to understand, and he nods at her. She returns it with one of her own, spins on her heel, and walks into the crowd, allowing the people to swallow her up. The Mandalorian tries to keep an eye on her as she navigates through the busy Square. He catches flashes of lilac every few seconds, but after a minute of not seeing the handmaiden, he stops looking.

Quickly, he stashes Talia’s gift in one of the pouches attached to his belt, and then he maneuvers his way through the sea of rich fabrics and Beskar armor.

After a few minutes of squeezing past people celebrating the Viceroy’s new position as Clan Leader of Onderon, the Mandalorian leaves Yolahn Square behind him and enters the Malgan Market. He glances around him, searching for a secluded area for him to examine Talia’s gift. Yet finding a place where he can have peace and quiet and privacy is nearly impossible with all of Iziz gathered on this special day. Maybe he should go back to the _Crest_ and look at the device there. But his curiosity makes him impatient; he wants to know what Talia had given him as soon as he can.

His feet march across a street, and soon he spies an alleyway between two fruit stands. So, without hesitation, he heads straight for it, and in less than a minute the enclosed passage welcomes him into its shadowy depths. The sun is hiding behind a cloud, painting the alley in slightly darker hues. He glances around him and checks to make sure that he has not walked into some kind of prowler’s trap. The last thing he needs right now is to get mugged.

He strides deeper into the alleyway’s dim passages and hides behind some storage containers. Then, he yanks out Talia’s gift from where he had safely stashed it. With gloved fingers he examines the circular device and its domed-top. It is almost bigger than his entire hand, but he is able to keep a firm grip around the device with his fingers. Buttons line the edges of the gift, and he presses a red one near his thumb.

The domed top of the device splits into quarters and retracts into its slender body. A low hum reaches his ears, and a hologram flashes before his eyes. He studies it and identifies the image as a map of Iziz. He can spot Yolahn Square, the hangar where he has parked the _Crest_ , and the Mandalorian district he had visited the day before.

A big red dot pulses on the map, and he recognizes that area in the city where this rendezvous will be taking place. He had passed by it yesterday and saw that the street filled with modest-looking buildings contained shops, cantinas, and restaurants. He assumes the red dot is actually a cantina since Talia’s file said she has a reputation of frequenting those establishments so she can mingle with all sorts of people from different social classes.

Studying the rendezvous point with a detailed eye, he estimates that the red dot is not only two miles away from the Unifar Temple but also two miles from where he landed the _Crest_. As fast as the speed of light, the handmaiden’s message from Talia surges through his memory: _“The number two is key, Ordo: two miles far, two hours long, two stories high.”_

 _Guess I’ll see her in two hours then,_ he muses to himself as he turns off the holoprojector and puts it away, fairly certain he can find their rendezvous without having to check the holo-map again.

As he strolls through the alley at a leisurely pace, he fishes out his black cord necklace and unties the knot that secures it around his neck. His Mythosaur skull pendant, gleaming a shiny silver and looking pristine even in the dim light, rubs against Talia’s black-gold and amethyst ring. The two Mandalorian symbols have been pendants together for over six weeks, pressing into his chest and reminding him of the weight that each one is linked to. But now it is time for him to return Talia’s ring; after all, this _is_ one of the reasons why he has come to Onderon in the first place.

He slides the jewelry from his thin cord necklace and tucks it away in one of his pouches strapped to his belt. He does not want its owner to get the wrong idea of just how close to him he has kept her ring.

Once the jewelry is secured, the Mandalorian re-ties his necklace around his neck. When he glances down at his pendant, he cannot stop from thinking that the Mythosaur skull looks . . . lonely. But he brushes away the idea. It has been the sole pendant on his necklace far longer than it has been a companion to Talia’s ring.

With an annoyed huff at himself, he tucks his necklace beneath his armor and tunic and stalks through the alleyway. Even though he has less than two hours to kill until he meets up with Talia, he may as well do some surveillance around their rendezvous point. Knowing the surrounding streets and the ins and outs of the building can, he is sure, prove useful to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you want to know more about King Ridha of Onderon, go to "Bleeding Beskar" - Chapter 8: Intelligence 01, the middle section. And if you want to read more on Talia, go to "Bleeding Beskar" - Chapter 11: Intelligence 04, the section after the Dxun information.)


	3. The Bucket Head and the Princess

Chapter III: The Bucket Head and the Princess

The cantina where he is supposed to meet Talia is called Trading Spirits. But perhaps categorizing it as a bar is incorrect. There is a grandness yet simplicity to it that separates it from most hole-in-the wall establishments. Even Nazim’s cantina is not this big. Or this old.

Trading Spirits is two stories high and made of stone. It is so large that it connects the parallel streets flanking it, which is why it has two entrances. The rooms on the ground floor, from what the Mandalorian can see, are airy and quite large with arches designed into the thresholds. Wide windows decorate the majority of the walls facing the streets, allowing as much natural light in as possible. The sun’s rays turn the building’s structure into various hues of golden sandstone, but he notes that each window has a thick shade to keep out the light if the owner wishes it.

As the Mandalorian stalks through the cantina’s lower level, he counts five rooms. Stationed on the north side of the establishment is a lounge-like area, with couches and a small bar, and a decent-sized dining room. At the south side of the building is a closed-off room for private parties; an entertainment section with dancing, music, and a bar tucked away in a corner; and a third room—the largest yet—containing high tables and stools with an oval-shaped bar stuffed with countless types of spirits and other beverages, their clear liquids shining with all the colors of the rainbow.

So far, Trading Spirits seems like a decent place to find entertainment or to escape. While he assesses the building and its patrons, he notices that most of the people frequenting this establishment are not all dressed like Onderonians or Mandalorians. And the aliens here are not the ones known to live in the Japrael System. He identifies Rodians, a Mon Calamari, Bothans, Chagrians, and even a Trandoshan. They look tired and dressed for travel, which makes him realize that they are here because they are tradesmen.

 _The cantina must be a famous place where these guys can do their business,_ he figures. _Or blow off some steam with a drink._

He now sees why Talia wanted to meet him here. Trading Spirits is undoubtedly known for its short-term visitors and strangers. No one will batt an eyelash at seeing him here, a Mandalorian with no signet and no visible Clan ties seared into his silver armor.

 _“Two stories high,”_ Talia’s message had said. He glances at the curved stairway; the door stationed on its left side leads to the room for private parties. The stone steps have been freshly swept, and its railing looks smooth to the touch. From the bottom of the staircase he makes out at least two doors above him.

Slowly, he ascends, his boots softly treading on each step. He walks close to the wall on his right, his gloved fingers running over his holstered pistol. Which room does Talia want to meet in? She had mentioned in her message, _“The number two is key.”_ So, maybe he should give the second room a try?

When he reaches the top of the stairs, he explores the second floor, making sure his steps are quiet. At first glance, he counts three doors, and one of them is closed. Inside the others, he can hear soft murmurings from patrons playing cards or discussing business deals. The closed door, he assumes, is the manager’s office. So, where is he supposed to meet Talia? Perhaps arriving at their rendezvous ten minutes early was a mistake. Maybe one of these rooms will be vacated by that time. But even if that is the case, he cannot figure out _which_ room is the second room. Is it the second on his right? Or his left?

A dark corner, off to his right and with no windows, catches his eye. Not wanting to wait for Talia out in the open like a lost fool, he moves towards that area so he can blend in with the shadows—or, at least try to. When he nears the dark corner, he notices that it leads to a short hallway.

Thinking this as a strange architectural design, he carefully stalks down the hall, turns the corner, and comes across another door. Above it, glaring at him in the dim light, is a Mythosaur skull. The Mandalorian symbol is crafted in steel, reminding him of the one hanging in the sewers of Nevarro where his Tribe had been living.

 _So, that’s why Talia didn’t say anything about which room,_ he muses to himself. It is obvious that a Mandalorian meeting should take place where a Mythosaur skull is keeping watch outside. _That woman thinks of everything._

With the flick of his wrist, he opens the door by pressing a button on a panel and enters. The entry immediately connects to a small lounge furnished with a couch, a miniature table, and fluffy sitting cushions lying on the rug-covered floor. He wanders further inside, noting that the door closes behind him.

Following the lounge is a dining room of sorts. An oval-shaped table with eight chairs takes center-stage in this area. Off to his left is a small bar, supplied with a dozen beverages; and on his right is a computer system, its features including speakers, two holoprojectors, a screen, and several gadgets that he is not quite familiar with.

After the dining room, he sees, is a balcony that stretches from one end of the room to the other. Five rounded arches with stone pillars in between each act as the threshold. Floor-length curtains, deep red and almost transparent, distort the cityscape beyond.

Curious of the view, the Mandalorian walks past the dining table, raises a hand to a curtain, and pushes aside the wispy material. The balcony has a stone railing similar in design to the staircase he had climbed, and potted plants are sitting in the corners. He crosses the space of the balcony in three strides and sets his gloved hands on the railing.

The south side of Iziz lays before him, a sea of buildings hundreds of miles long. Here and there are pillars of smoke rising into the azure sky, more than likely coming from home kitchens and restaurants. Down below, speeders zoom through the streets dodging the people participating in the festivities. It is an impressive view, and the Mandalorian stares at it for a couple of minutes before returning to the dining room once more.

He figures he has over five minutes until Talia joins him, and he feels every second pass by. What should he say to her when she finally gets here? How will she greet him? His feet shift at the idea of a hug. Maybe during the two hours of waiting he should have brought the kid with him. The little one has always been a bridge between them.

Knowing Talia has royal blood, should he bow? Is that not the correct form of respect? No, he decides, shaking his head. There is no need for formalities, even if she is a princess. Why did she not tell him? Or throw her rank around when she was being bullied into returning to Onderon nearly six weeks ago? He still stands by his belief that she did not have to come back here, that the evidence her astromech droid provided was enough to clear her name. Talia could have put her foot down and declared that she was staying on Cholganna. But in the end, she chose to leave and allowed her duty to chain her again, thus denying her the freedom she had so longed for.

With his arms crossed in front of him, the Mandalorian faces the open balcony, the red curtains swaying in the wind ever so slightly. Behind him, his ears pick up the softest of noises. He tilts his head to the side, trying to zone in at the sound. Then, he hears the door open, and he knows it is Talia. Her footsteps are quiet as she walks further into the room, but he continues to keep his back to her.

When he hears the door close, his mind scrambles for something to say. On impulse, he remarks in a neutral tone, “You didn’t tell me you were a princess.”

A heartbeat passes before he hears her answer: “Because I’m not.”

Her elegant accent sounds muffled, and he wonders if she dislikes the title.

“People here say differently,” he informs her. He drops his arms to his sides and turns around. His eyes land on Talia in an instant.

As she slowly closes the distance between them, he sees that she is still wearing her purple tunic with its long-sleeves and slit in the front. The material is darker than he thought and looks velvety to the touch. Her trousers, made of the same color but different fabric, are decorated with a floral pattern embroidered with gold thread. Covering her head and half her face is a long shawl, matching the rest of her clothes; it even has a similar floral pattern as her trousers. The purple shawl reminds him of when they first met. At the time, both of them were hiding their identities. She must have snuck into Trading Spirits, and he cannot blame her for wanting to keep a low-profile today of all days.

With a hand, Talia removes her shawl from concealing her face and loosely wraps it around her shoulders, allowing the expensive material to hang from the crooks of her elbows. He notices that she is no longer wearing her Mandalorian breast-plate nor her belt with her helmet attached to it. It seems she had traded those items for a long, gold necklace and pendant resting against her chest. And down below, he realizes that she had also switched footwear. Instead of the black, knee-high boots he had seen earlier, Talia is now wearing purple slippers with gold and pink beading. He wants to shake his head at the familiar sight; he still thinks boots are more practical.

“You’ve got royal blood in you,” he states as his gaze roams over her loose hair. He can spy at least three braids blending in with her dark, wavy locks.

“My grandmother was the daughter of a king,” Talia explains to him, her tone patient. “ _She_ was a princess. But that title died with her. It wasn’t passed down to my mother, and it’s never been given to me.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I’m only the second cousin to the former queen of Onderon. Nothing more.”

After her little speech, he notices that she surveys him with a critical eye. Her gaze subtly travels from his helmet down to his boots and across his belt where his pistol is holstered. For the life of him, he still does not know why she even bothers to study him. He looks the same; nothing about his appearance has changed since she left him and the baby on Cholganna.

“Word is,” he remarks, “you would’ve made a great queen. And you’re in line for the throne.”

“Well, unless you want to remove my cousin’s three children, then yes. I am in line. But I won’t let that happen,” she states, her gaze hardening slightly. An amused smile plays on her lips when she adds, “You know, you really shouldn’t trust the gossips.”

It is his turn to shrug his shoulders. What can he say? Nazim has been a good source of information, despite the fact that he lets his own personal opinion bleed too much into their conversation. However, the bounty hunter does not want her to think of _him_ as a gossiper, so he defensively crosses his arms.

“Well, I knew you were a royal back on Cholganna,” he says, and he cringes at how accusatory he sounds.

Talia cocks a dark eyebrow at him, clearly amused. “Is that a compliment or an insult, Ordo?”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. He does not bother to hide the comradery in his tone as he quips, “Both, Kex.”

“Oh, it _is_ good to see you again,” she chuckles, her eyes sparkling with playfulness. As she walks around the dining table, he gives her a half-smile even though she cannot see it. “You look well,” she teases, stopping a few feet away from him.

When she extends her right arm, he hesitates for half a second before doing the same. Their hands are about a foot apart, but he remains where he is. He is not sure what to expect when they touch, so he is leaving that decision up to her. _She_ must set the tone of their reception. But what kind of welcome gesture will she choose? The Japrael System greeting that she gave him as a farewell over a month ago? Or perhaps a simple handshake?

After a moment, Talia saves him the trouble of worrying about it. She closes the distance between them and gently grips the inside of his right forearm with her hand. In response, he returns the greeting, his gloved fingers holding onto her velvety, purple long-sleeve.

“You look well, too,” he returns, and he means it. She does not appear to be as tired as he had expected. Maybe Onderonian politics has been kind to her since her homecoming.

They give each other a small squeeze and a brief “shake” before releasing their grips on one another’s forearms. As he drops his hand to his side, he tries to find something to say. He lifts up his gaze and realizes that her dark brown eyes are intently staring at his visor, making him feel like she can see past his Beskar helmet and down to his soul. He has forgotten how penetrating her eyes can be, and he wants to squirm under her scrutiny. It is so different from Omera’s.

At the last thought, the Mandalorian inwardly shakes his mind away from the memory of his beautiful Sorganese hostess. Now is not the time for him to think like this. He has chosen to move past that, and past her.

Clearing his throat—which, all of a sudden, feels dry—he awkwardly tells his companion, “I’m glad you’re all right.”

She gives him a soft smile. “Likewise.”

 _Why wouldn’t I be okay?_ he wonders to himself. _It’s not like_ I _was the one dragged back home against my will._

“So, what’d they do to you when you left?” he asks her. He does not feel the need to add the phrase ‘back on Cholganna’ because, from the way Talia runs her teeth over her bottom lip, he knows that she is all too aware of exactly what he is referring to.

“I was sedated,” she answers, her voice free of any emotion. “They didn’t want to risk me causing them trouble.”

A scoff escapes him before he can swallow it. “You were in restraints,” he flatly reminds her. “It’s not like you could’ve done much.”

“Let’s just say that I’ve been known to . . . get out of tough situations before.”

‘Like what?’ he wants to ask, especially since she does not elaborate after several seconds. His jaw tenses at her silence, and he resists the urge to curl his hands into fists. Her and her secrets. She keeps too many things close to her chest, and he has forgotten how annoying this aspect of her is. Will there ever come a day when one of their conversations will _not_ require her to hold her peace?

Knowing she has chosen to refrain from elaborating on her cryptic answer, he forces himself to ignore his annoyance. Instead, he focuses on the topic of their discussion and asks, “So, when you woke up . . . you were okay?”

“Yes. I was under my Mandalorians’ protection for the rest of the trip.”

 _I guess Lieutenant Lance did his job then,_ he muses, thinking of the young Mandalorian in red armor.

“How is the youngling?” Talia inquires, breaking into his thoughts.

He notices she did not use the name that she had christened the pointy-eared alien with. She probably does not want to aggravate him by saying a name she knew he was not fond of. But he has called him ‘Vandar’ a few times during his travels to Onderon, just so the kid could behave himself and listen to his instructions. The Mandalorian inwardly sighs. He may as well tell her that he does not hate the name like he first did.

“Vandar’s fine,” he reveals. Though Talia makes sure to keep her mouth in a straight yet pleasant line, he sees that her eyes shine with approval and joy.

“Where is he?” she asks him in a tone that reminds him of a mother longing to see her child.

“On my ship. I didn’t want to expose him too much here.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him. “Is he all right being by himself?”

“Only for a few hours.”

“And has he shown any more of the . . . special gifts he’s born with?” she hesitantly questions.

“Not too much.”

Talia nods, her gaze shifting past him. From the faraway look in her eyes he knows she is not admiring the view of Iziz behind him. If anything, she is probably trying to come up with another topic since he had abruptly ended their last one. He needs to stop giving her short answers; doing so is making him a poor conversation partner.

As he inwardly kicks himself, he notices Talia move to the dining table. She hangs her expensive shawl over a chair before taking a seat. With a welcoming smile, she gestures to the other empty chairs around the oval-shaped table. It is a kind invitation to join her, but the bounty hunter shakes his head, preferring to stand for the time being. He has a feeling he will fidget if he does sit down, and if this conversation has showed him anything so far, it is that he has been struggling to get his footing around Talia again. He feels he has to make sure that his wit and senses are as sharp as ever while talking with her.

Instead, he simply strolls around the table and positions himself off to the side. With his back to the balcony and the table acting as a barrier between them, he comfortably crosses his arms, ready for her to start their next topic.

“So,” she says with a contented sigh. “How have _you_ been, Ordo? Truly?”

He blinks at her. The question is not what he was expecting. But as he allows it to settle in his brain, he realizes that he should have been waiting for something like that. After all, Talia has proven to be just as interested in him as the baby. It is only natural for her to want to know how _he_ is fairing.

“Hanging in there,” he answers, shrugging his shoulders.

“Did you stay on Cholganna?”

“No,” he curtly replies. After a second, he then decides he should offer her something more than short answers. “I ended up on another planet.”

“Really?” she asks, curiosity painting her accent. “Which one?”

“Sorgan.”

Saying the planet’s name out loud brings back memories of the people he met. He thinks of Caben with his green head-covering and his best friend, Stoke. Then, his mind drifts to the plan he and Cara had concocted to eliminate the raider-threat that loomed over the krill farmers’ village. Before he can reign in his memories, his mind’s eye conjures up an image of the kind-hearted widow whom he had been—and maybe still is—attracted to.

“Hmm,” Talia muses to herself. “Never heard of it before.”

“Me neither.”

She chuckles softly. “It almost sounds like you made the name up.”

Wanting to lighten up the mood with her, he remarks, “Then I’d have a pretty good—or pretty dull—imagination to invent krill farmers and spotchka.”

“Sptoch-what?” Her forehead crinkles at the new word.

“Spotchka,” he repeats, smirking at her reaction. “It’s a drink brewed from the freshwater krill that the farmers harvest there.”

His companion shakes her head, murmuring, “It seems like people make alcohol from anything these days.”

“I know. But it wasn’t bad,” he admits. “Though, I still prefer some good _ne’tra gal_ * myself.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: NAY-trah gahl; known as a black ale, sweet and almost spicy)_

“Here, here,” she agrees with a warm smile. “So, why . . . Sorgan?”

She had said the planet’s name as if she was testing an outlandish word on her tongue. He uncrosses his arms and lays his hands on the chair in front of him.

“It was supposed to be quiet,” he says. “Boring. Laid-back.”

“And I’ll take it that it wasn’t.”

With a shrug, he shares, “For the most part, it was. But I ended up helping a village with a bandit problem. They kept getting their harvests stolen from a bunch of Klantooinians.”

Talia hums to herself. “Raiders preying on small villages—it’s the oldest problem in history. And they hired you?”

“They did. And now the village is safe again.”

As her dark pink lips form into a fond smile, her eyes twinkle with an emotion he cannot seem to put his finger on. It is as if she has suspected something about him, or what he is capable of; and hearing him share his story on how he helped out the Sorganese farmers had confirmed that suspicion. Talia almost seems . . . proud of him, an idea that startles the man. Why would she have high expectations of him?

In an instant he remembers what she had said to Ryk’ken back on Cholganna. The other man was disgusted that she befriended a bounty hunter, yet Talia had come to his defense, saying, _“He isn’t like most hunters.”_ So, maybe she really has seen past his Mandalorian armor and recognized—or at least tried to understand—the man he is underneath, despite the fact that he has never removed his helmet in her presence. And he is uncertain on how to feel about this. For the moment, he is glad he is standing behind a chair with his hands lying atop it. The small piece of furniture is grounding him, preventing him from fidgeting.

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Talia replies, breaking into his thoughts. “To lend them your expertise. And you were able to do this on your own?”

He shakes his head. “No, I had some help. From an ex-Rebel shock trooper.”

Her eyebrows lift up, and she is obviously impressed at the news. “Sounds exciting. I’ve worked with a few Droppers myself.”

“You mean during your suicide missions for the Rebels?” he asks, intrigued.

“Yes. Just a handful,” she reveals quite modestly. “They’re a special type of military personnel. They handle ops that require speed, skill, and . . . discretion.”

He feels his spine straighten with interest, and his hands squeeze the back of the chair he is still holding onto. This is the most information he has gotten out of Talia concerning her ties to the Rebellion—which is not saying much.

With his curiosity growing, he is about to question her about one of her missions, but she quickly moves on from this topic and asks him, “The shock trooper—I’m sure he or she was helpful in protecting the Sorgan village with you. Did the villagers just hire you, or did they lend a hand as well?”

Frustration seeps through his blood. Ever the politician, Talia was trying to redirect his attention elsewhere. Well, her tactic is _not_ working on him. However, he knows when it is time to drop a subject. Maybe she has some bad memories she would rather not re-live at the moment. Or she does not trust him enough to share; after all, they have only spent time in each other’s company for three days. Yet his hands tighten around the back of the chair in a death-grip. He swears on the Mandalorian moon, Concordia, that before his visit to Onderon is over he will have heard at least _one_ story about Talia’s coalition with the Rebel Alliance.

Releasing his hold on the chair, he allows his frustration to flow out of him. He then remembers Talia’s careful wording on the shock trooper’s gender, and it reminds him of Cara Dune poking at him, wondering who his Mandalorian friend is, a man or a woman. While Cara had been searching for a new way to tease him, he has a feeling Talia is simply asking for more information. Well, she can be as secretive as she wants. _He_ , at least, will do her the courtesy of being open.

“The villagers helped us. And it’s a she. The soldier,” he clarifies as he crosses his arms again. “Her name’s Cara Dune. I couldn’t have protected the village without her.”

“I’m glad you had someone you could count on. She sounds like a friend,” Talia warmly remarks.

“She is. She saved the kid’s life.”

Like lightning, her kind expression morphs into one of concern and alarm. Her eyes ask him to explain, and he inwardly kicks himself for letting his remark slip. What was he thinking? Not only had he just admitted that he was incapable of protecting the gifted infant, but he is also making Talia worry for no reason.

“Vandar was in danger?” she inquires, her voice thick with apprehension.

“Technically, he still is. Remember,” he explains to her, “I stole him from an Imp who hired me to find him. And they’ve wanted him back since. I’ve been dodging bounty hunters after I left Cholganna.”

For a brief second, she closes her eyes and nods. Then, she asks, “How many tried to get the youngling on Sorgan?”

“Just one. But it was enough for me to take the kid and leave.”

“And after Sorgan?”

“I was actually headed here,” he admits. “But I got . . . side-tracked.”

When the woman tilts her head at him and sends him a pressing look, he figures he may as well tell her what happened. So, he reveals, “I had a dog-fight with another bounty hunter. My ship was damaged, so I got it fixed on the closest planet—Tatooine.”

At the planet’s name, Talia frowns. “I _really_ don’t like Tatooine. So much sand and heat and rocks.” He almost lurches at how bitter she sounds. “Why is it,” she asks, though he has a feeling it is rhetorical question, “that almost everyone, at some point, somehow lands on that desert planet?”

Not being able to help himself, he verbally pokes, “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

The look she sends him is a mixture of ‘oh, please’ and ‘don’t get me started,’ which makes him want to laugh. Instead, he disciplines himself to silently smirking behind his helmet.

“Once was too much for me,” Talia states, her accent curt. “But twice was a complete joke.”

“Fate sure has a twisted sense of humor,” he comments, half-teasing her.

Talia hums in response, her expression still resentful at the thought of Tatooine. “Sometimes,” she mutters. Suddenly, her eyes snap in his direction as if something just clicked in her brain. “Are you believing in Fate now?”

“Let’s just say,” he slowly admits, shifting on his feet, “that I’m open to the possibilities.”

“And what’s convinced you to even consider it?” she asks him.

Her voice is calm, yet he can see a flash of curiosity in her eyes. He wants to tell her, truly; he is more than willing to hear her opinion. But he does not think he has enough time to delve into this topic. They have things to settle, like a Mandalorian Fighting Circle. Plus, it has been almost four hours since he has last seen the baby, and he expects his ward will be waking up soon—if he is not already shuffling across the ship looking for him. He needs to go back and check on the little womp rat before he does something . . . unnatural.

“Maybe another time, Talia,” he says as gently as he can. However, he does not miss the look of disappointment that flickers across her diamond-shaped face. He blinks, and it vanishes without a trace. To help chase away her reaction, he adds, “I should be getting back to the kid. He’s probably up from his nap. But first . . .” He pulls out her ring from where he had stashed it in one of his belt’s pouches. “I mostly came to return this.”

He walks around the dining table and stands before Talia. A small half-smile plays on her lips when she recognizes her black-gold ring embedded with amethyst gemstones. He offers her the small piece of jewelry and drops it in her out-stretched hand.

“You took care of it for me,” she murmurs, her eyes sweeping over the ring before she slips it on a finger on her right hand.

 _Of course, I would,_ he thinks to himself. _What does she take me for? Some irresponsible shabuir_ * _?_

 _(_ * _pronounced: SHAH-boo-EER; meaning: extreme insult – “jerk,” but much stronger)_

“And you were shrewd, Princess,” he states. He notices that she wrinkles her nose—at him or the title, he is not sure which. “You knew I’d give it back,” he says, trying not to sound accusatory again. “And that I’d come all this way to do it.”

Talia drops her eyes then sends him a ‘guilty as charged’ look. The smile she gives him is shy, shier than he has seen on her so far, and he does not have it in him to feel annoyed at her like he thought he would.

“I, uh,” she stumbles, “I didn’t want you to . . . to forget about me.”

“Not possible,” he automatically replies. “I don’t owe a life-debt to anyone else. Besides the kid, that is. And speaking of which, we still have our Fighting Circle to finish.”

“About that,” she says. With ease and grace, Talia stands up and pushes her chair in before turning to him. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since we last saw each other. So, as of this moment, I am withdrawing my challenge.”

He opens his mouth to protest, and he gets one word out. Well, maybe _word_ is too strong a description. He utters a sound, like a guttural objection; however, Talia raises a hand to silence him. Normally, he would have ignored such a condescending signal. But the way Talia does this—so regal, so natural—makes him close his mouth and nod at her, silently asking her to continue.

“It was wrong of me to issue the challenge in the first place, Ordo,” she confesses, her tone sincere. “I was frustrated at you, and I let it get in the way. I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”

He simply stares at her, uncertain of what to tell her. To say he was not expecting this would be the understatement of the decade. He had received an admittance of wrong-doing and an apology from Talia, an Onderonian politician and a Mandalorian fighter. What should he do? Thank her? Accept her apology? Or perhaps she would not want him to give her either. His stunned mind tries to recover, and he searches for something to say.

 _Well, I’m definitely_ not _going to tell her that I was planning to leave the kid on Sorgan,_ he decides. She just may rescind her decision and then force them _back_ into the Circle.

“So, you aren’t interested in Vandar?” he asks, feeling slightly confused.

“I didn’t say that,” she corrects. “His safety, his gifts—I still want to help. Both of you.”

“But the Circle was a way for me to repay my debt,” he argues. How in the name of Mandalore is he supposed to break free from this duty now?

“I know,” she patiently answers. “But I assume there’s no hurry in figuring out how that can be done. I mean, you’ve been here almost two days before showing yourself to me.”

He flinches at the revelation. “You knew?”

“Please, Ordo,” Talia sniffs, almost proudly. “It’s my planet, my city. I have sources _everywhere_.”

The hairs at the back of his neck stand up at the thought that she might have been watching him this entire time, from the moment he landed the _Crest_ up until he visited the Mandalorian district on the west side of Iziz.

 _No wonder she had the holoprojector ready for me,_ he realizes. _She was hoping I’d go to the ceremony today._

“You still have a hand in everything?” he asks her, disbelief coating his voice. “Even though you’re no longer Clan Leader?”

Talia crosses her arms. “Just because I retired from that doesn’t mean my resources have disappeared. But then, I _am_ an advisor to the King.”

“You mean your tween cousin,” he says. After she nods, he casually remarks, “They say you’re not his father’s favorite person.”

At this, she uncrosses her arms and fiddles with her shawl, which is still dangling over the back of a chair. “Kavan and I,” she slowly reveals, “have a . . . rocky relationship. But his son—who is also my godson—wants me at Court, so I’m still there to offer my counsel. But let’s not talk about politics,” she begs, retrieving her shawl and wrapping it around her neck like a scarf. “You wanted to go back to Vandar, and I would like to see him. May I join you?”

Not seeing any harm in her request, he shrugs and says, “Sure.”

She beams at him so brightly that it makes him realize just how much she wants to be reunited with the green infant. As he strolls to the door with Talia behind him, he wonders if they should leave the room at separate times and then meet up at the hangar. He does not want on-lookers to get the wrong idea about them. And he has no intention to be the center of Izizian gossip, especially if there is a likelihood of him being identified as one of her Mandalorian lovers that he keeps hearing about.

“I’ve been hoping that . . .” he hears Talia say as they pass through the room’s lounge. “I mean, to help you repay your debt, maybe I can—”

A beeping sound interrupts her. He stops and glances over his shoulder because the noise is not coming from him. His companion sighs at the disruption and pulls out something small from her trousers’ pocket. When she opens her hand, he spies her Imagecaster. The circular, bronze-rimmed device fits perfectly in her hand, just like it did on Cholganna.

“Excuse me,” she politely says to him with an apologetic smile. “It’s R6. I left him outside in the alley to be my lookout. And to monitor my comms.”

She presses the Imagecaster’s grill-looking center with her thumb, and a colored hologram of her astromech droid appears. Looking pristine with its orange and white plating, R6-D12 whistles, what the Mandalorian assumes, a friendly greeting to its owner.

“Yes, R6? What is it?” Talia asks, her tone patient.

The trash compactor begins to whistle and beep so quickly the bounty hunter is amazed Talia can understand any of that mechanical language at all. As R6 continues to chatter on for a few more seconds, he feels his lips press tightly together in a frown. He has not missed that bucket of bolts one bit.

“He was, was he?” his fellow Mandalorian wonders aloud, and he can detect resignation in her accent. “Very well then, R6. You can patch him through when he tries to contact me again. I’ll answer him this time.”

When the hologram of R6 flickers off, Talia closes her hand around her Imagecaster. She then glances at him and offers another apologetic smile, which makes his muscles tense up. He has a feeling there will be a change of plans.

“Everything okay?” he asks her.

“Yes,” she breathes out. “It’s just that Dacob’s been trying to reach me these past few minutes. R6 says he sounds a little tiffed at me. Apparently,” she says with a hint of humor, “I’m wanted somewhere else right now.”

“I wonder why,” he sarcastically replies.

Talia smirks at him. “I know, right?”

The comradery between them lightens the somber mood that was brought on by R6’s call. But when Talia’s smirk fades, the Mandalorian feels a twinge of disappointment that her duty will delay her reunion with the child. Why cannot Ryk’ken just let her have some time to herself, away from the public and away from him? He wonders if the newly appointed Clan Leader gets nervous when Talia is not there to hold his hand and help him juggle his additional responsibilities.

“How about I see you later?” he tries to compromise. “It’s a big day for you. You don’t need any distractions.”

“I would like to argue with you, but you’re right,” she sighs. “But I probably won’t be free for a while.”

He shrugs. “Just swing by when you can slip away.”

She sends him an appreciative smile and nods. “An hour after sunset. Will that work out?”

“Sure. My ship is at the—”

“Ruping Hangar,” she finishes for him. Startled, he tilts his head to the side, and this time, Talia is the one who shrugs. “I told you I have sources everywhere.”

“You’re telling me,” he mutters under his breath. He has the sudden urge to relocate the _Crest_ to another hangar altogether.

Talia’s Imagecaster beeps again.

 _Ryk’ken sure doesn’t waste any time,_ he silently grumbles.

“You should get that,” he says, his tone flat.

“I will,” she sighs, but she does not answer the holo-call.

He had heard how tired she sounds, and he cannot stop a smirk from forming on his lips. It seems that Ryk’ken is not the person she wants to talk to at the moment. He wonders if this is the first time the other man has been temporarily removed from holding his position as her best friend.

Knowing she will not answer the call if he stays in the room, he decides it is time to take his leave. So, he moves closer to the door. He glances over his shoulder and says to her, “See you later, Princess.”

He waits for her reaction at the title, and she does not disappoint. She gives him a saucy smile and retaliates, “And you, Bucket Head.”

The uncreative name makes him roll his eyes. He nods at her before exiting the private room. As the door closes behind him, he looks above him and finds the Mythosaur skull still hanging over the entryway, religiously guarding whoever occupies the room.

Straightening his shoulders, the Mandalorian walks down the darkened hall, leaving Talia in the care of their culture’s symbol of strength and honor.

* * *

Talia's attire:

Talia's Imagecaster:

Re-introducing R6-D12:


	4. Gilded Cages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My longest chapter yet. Enjoy!

Chapter IV: Gilded Cages

Dusk is only minutes away, and he should be receiving a visit from Talia in the next hour. All he needs to do is wait.

The Mandalorian had returned to Ruping Hangar a while ago, and as an apology to the child for leaving him alone, he had brought the hungry alien a large bowl of stew packed with floating vegetables and meat. Afterwards, they explored the south side of Iziz since it had seemed less crowded in that area. A bakery’s homey and sweet aroma had caught the child’s attention, so his guardian ended up buying him a small pastry.

Now, he fiddles with his tools around the _Crest_ , tightening loose bolts and making sure everything is as it should be. His ship is holding itself together well, despite how old it is. He notices that he will need to replace some rusting bolts and pipes very soon, which makes him inwardly sigh. Credits have been hard to come by these days, and he is sure this trip is going to cost him a lot of what he has saved up—and that is not much. Fuel alone will syphon his credits like a vacuum. But he is grateful that food for him and the kid has not been too expensive here.

He returns inside his ship and puts away his tools. His ears zero-in on the soft padding of Vandar’s green feet. When he glances over his shoulder, he sees the baby rubbing his face over his little Nexu pelt. The white fur with black stripes drapes over his box-like cradle, and eventually, Vandar pulls it out and drags it around the _Crest_.

A few hours ago, the Mandalorian had decided to fish out the kid’s Nexu fur from Cholganna. (He actually has Talia’s still in its crate, but he had moved it to the middle of the ship so he can remember to give it back to her when she arrives.) Vandar’s eyes went huge when his guardian laid his smaller pelt over his box-cradle. He had then snuggled in the soft depths of his bed with so much happiness that the Mandalorian felt guilty for stashing it away for the past several weeks.

He walks over to his ward and kneels in front of him. “Hey, kid. You shouldn’t drag that,” he says, pointing to the white fur in Vandar’s three-fingered hands. “You’ll ruin it, okay? And then it’ll just be a rag.”

With a nod, he gently slips the pelt out of the little one’s grip and returns it to his box-cradle. His charge does not seem too disappointed by this, for which the Mandalorian is grateful for.

“Hey, Mando!” a loud voice calls out to him.

Automatically, he stands up straight and turns to whoever summoned him. It is one of the Onderonians who works here at the hangar. He thinks the skinny man with a shiny bald head is named Kord.

Beside the worker is a white R3 unit with yellow plating. It looks like any other R2 unit, but its head distinguishes it from that specific astromech droid. This bucket of bolts has a clear domed head, probably made of transparisteel. He remembers hearing that the transparent top gives an R3’s internal sensor package greater range. It also displays its supercomputer brain, which houses an immense amount of data. The larger memory had been designed specifically to be used by militaries and high-tech government agencies. So, the R3 unit’s presence tells the Mandalorian that it is on some kind of government business, which makes him feel slightly apprehensive.

“I got an R3 unit here to see you,” Kord tells him, his voice raised.

Instead of answering the worker, the Mandalorian exits the _Crest_ and walks down his cargo ramp. He can hear the kid waddling behind him.

“What does it want?” he coolly demands.

The droid whistles and whirrs out some low-pitched noises. He may actually not mind this tin-can with its calmer and quieter beeps. Not like Talia’s droid. R6 had gotten on his nerves with his snarky attitude and loud chirping.

“He says he has a holo-message for you,” Kord translates after a long period of silence. He then motions for the astrodroid to roll closer. “I’ll leave you to it.”

As Kord gives them some privacy, the R3 unit warmly toots and tweets, but it is absolute nonsense to the Mandalorian. The golden tin-can swivels its head, and the baby shuffles closer it, his little hands gliding over the pristine plating.

“All right,” the Mandalorian nearly barks at it, not pleased his charge is so fascinated by a piece of machinery. “Deliver the message, you trash compactor.”

The droid does not whistle at him for the insult. It responds by simply adjusting its mini-holoprojector attached to his clear-domed head. Two seconds pass before a colored hologram of Viceroy Dacob Ryk’ken appears. The sight makes the baby hide behind the droid’s leg.

Instinctively, the Mandalorian takes a step back from the large projection of the other man. He blinks at Ryk’ken’s tall form hovering over the dusty floor like a ghost. Not thrilled in seeing him, the Mandalorian crosses his arms in a defensive stance. If he is being honest, he was hoping to avoid any kind of interaction with the newly dubbed Clan Leader. But since Talia is their mutual friend, he should have known better than to be optimistic.

 _“Thanks, Sunny,”_ Ryk’ken nods at the yellow-plated droid, ignoring the bounty hunter. His deep voice sounds a little hollow from being recorded live.

Instead of feeling insulted by the slight, the Mandalorian takes a moment to look over Ryk’ken. He sees that the other man is not wearing his helmet, and his dark skin stands out against his blood-red and gray armor. Avoiding his pale green eyes, he notices that Ryk’ken is still wearing all of the ceremonial trimmings from earlier that day.

When the Viceroy turns to him, a frown is on the verge of breaking through on his face. _“So, you’re here then. And still hiding behind your helmet,”_ the Clan Leader of Onderon scoffs. _“That’s why she’s excited and restless at the same time right now.”_

The frown emerges on the other man, and the Mandalorian is too irked by his remarks to stop himself from goading at Ryk’ken.

“Who?” he flatly asks.

 _“Don’t patronize me,_ beroya _*,”_ the Viceroy snaps, a reaction that makes the Mandalorian smirk out of spite. _“She said you’d come. I was hoping she was going to be wrong, but I should’ve known better.”_

_(*pronounced: bair-OY-ah; translation: “bounty hunter”)_

“Talia’s always right, then?”

 _“That’s impossible, even for her,”_ Ryk’ken states, his green eyes growing paler with annoyance at the question. _“But she’s mostly right.”_

“What do you want, Ryk’ken?” he demands more than asks. With his arms crossed, he clenches his gloved hands into fists for a few seconds before releasing his tight grip. He is in no mood play host to a man who obviously dislikes and disapproves of him.

 _“What I want,”_ Ryk’ken says in an accent-free voice, _“is your word that you’re not here on Onderon to do a job.”_

 _Far from it,_ he inwardly answers but refuses to admit it out loud. _Didn’t Talia tell him she gave me her ring?_ When he glances at the other man’s grim expression, he thinks better of his query. _Probably not. Knowing Ryk’ken, he wouldn’t have liked hearing that._

“That isn’t my intention,” he replies instead.

At this, Ryk’ken cocks a black eyebrow at him. He rubs a hand over his chin, his fingers grazing across his oval-beard. It seems the answer caught him off-guard.

 _“So, why_ are _you here?”_ the Viceroy commands, as if the Mandalorian is one of his good little soldiers.

“Why do you think?” he prods before thinking better about it.

 _“You’re not in a position to ask me questions like that,”_ Ryk’ken retorts.

His tone had been cool, laced with steel, and the Mandalorian wonders if the quality of the colored hologram is not as good as it should be. He thinks he detects a minor red hue spreading across the Viceroy’s skin.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Ryk’ken,” he states matter-of-factly.

 _“And arrogance doesn’t suit you, Traxell,”_ the Clan Leader retaliates, his hands at his sides curling into fists. _“If that’s even your name.”_

 _Maybe he’s envious,_ he considers when he realizes the hologram’s red tint just may be green instead. _He probably thinks I have something with Talia that he doesn’t._ However, he deduces from the other man’s protective nature that Ryk’ken must be afraid of losing his bond with his best friend to the extent that he is blinded by the fact that there is nothing between the Mandalorian and Talia. _Well, nothing except the kid. Did she even tell him about the little womp rat?_

Below him, he hears a shuffling sound. He quickly glances down and finds the kid standing next to him, his brown eyes gazing at the ghost-like image of Ryk’ken with awe and interest. When his guardian returns his gaze back to their “guest,” he notices that Ryk’ken’s eyes shift downward. Knowing that the kid has not gone unnoticed by the other man, the Mandalorian feels his shoulders straighten. A shot of protectiveness as strong as his favorite spirits surges through his bloodstream.

 _“What’s that?”_ the Viceroy queries, nodding at little green alien.

“A baby,” he bluntly replies. Beside him, Vandar giggles.

The corner of Ryk’ken’s lips rises, but it is far from being a smile. His brows crunch up, wrinkling the lower half of his forehead, and there is a sense of pity mixed with aloofness flashing across his dark face.

 _“You’ve been busy the last month,”_ the Viceroy remarks, his expression turning grim again. _“Does_ she _know about it?”_

The question makes the Mandalorian survey the other man with a hunter’s eye. He finds it both interesting yet annoying that, so far, Ryk’ken has not once spoken Talia’s name; it is as if saying it will draw too much attention even though they are alone and free of busybody ears.

 _So, she kept the kid a secret. Even from her best friend,_ he muses, curious of her reasoning behind that decision.

Not being able to help himself from taunting one of the most powerful individuals on the planet, the Mandalorian states, “ _She’s_ the one who named him.”

He notices Ryk’ken’s brows furrow dangerously low, but he says nothing. He has done a good job of looking at him with disapproval, yet the Mandalorian is able to identify surprise swirling in his green eyes, giving away just how baffled Ryk’ken is by the revelation.

“She didn’t tell you about the kid then?” he verbally pokes more than asks as he uncrosses his arms and sets his hands on his hips. As if to emphasize his point, he can hear Vandar release a soft coo.

 _“She didn’t tell me much of anything about Cholganna,”_ the Viceroy mutters, his deep voice sounding tight.

 _And someone’s not bitter._ The Mandalorian smirks behind his helmet. _Yep, he’s envious. And jealous._

 _“Enough of this,”_ Ryk’ken abruptly declares, waving a hand in dismissal. _“Just keep a low profile,_ beroya _*. And the baby, too. You won’t be doing her any favors if you give her trouble.”_

_(*pronounced: bair-OY-ah)_

“And if I do, you’ll come after me?” he quips back.

The shrewd smile that ghosts across the Viceroy’s dark lips chills his blood ever so slightly.

 _“I might not have to,”_ came the response, a hint of satisfaction hidden in Ryk’ken’s tone. _“She’s dangerous in her own way, if you betray her. I just hope that, if it ever happens, I’m there to watch her throw_ everything _she has. At you.”_ He points an accusatory finger at the Mandalorian before his image flickers then disappears altogether.

The warning echoes in his mind, trapped in his helmet and bouncing off the silver Beskar protecting his head. Would Talia really react that way? Although he has no intention of turning on her—she has not given him any reason to—hearing from someone who knows her so well on how she might respond to a betrayal paints her in a different light. But he tries to reason that what Ryk’ken said seems to contradict Talia’s character. She reminds him of the type of person who believes in second chances. This was just Ryk’ken’s way of trying to get under his skin by using the bounty hunter’s unfamiliarity with Talia to do it.

He barely registers a friendly beeping from Sunny, the R3 unit. When he feels a small hand tugging at his trousers, he flinches but does not break free from the gentle hold. He glances around and discovers that Sunny has disappeared and the kid is staring up at him with wide eyes.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, ignoring Ryk’ken’s empty threat.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

For the next hour he keeps thinking about the Viceroy’s “visit” and the man himself. In his line of work, he is used to being viewed as a threat. Bounty hunters with a reputation like his usually are. He just has not been seen as a threat when it comes to friendships because he is not the kind of person to have many. Over the years he has kept a majority of the people he has come in contact with at arm’s length, especially with his profession.

He looks at the child, who is inside the _Crest_ playing with a can filled with nuts and bolts that he had “found” somewhere in the hangar. The ship’s cargo hold is lit up, casting the little one in yellow hues and shadows. Things have changed since the child entered into his life. So far, he has made friends with an entire Sorganese village, a lovely widow and her daughter, an ex-Rebel, a bar owner, and Talia—who is the most mysterious yet charismatic of them all.

Before coming to Onderon, he has known the half-Mandalorian for a grand total of three days. That fact alone should have been enough for him to terminate any thoughts of galivanting across the galaxy to come see her. Yet, he has to admit that the circumstances following their meeting—not to mention the kid—had bonded them. Their connection had felt so strong that he should be alarmed. But he cannot deny that there was, and still is, something about Talia that intrigues him. There is this aura, or something different, radiating from her that keeps pulling him towards her while simultaneously giving him the urge to push her far away from him. And if he is not mistaken, he thinks the kid feels that, too, with his strange gifts and heightened senses.

While night sets in, he impatiently paces around his ship, pretending that he is checking it for damages. The hangar’s lights are faint since a majority of the workers have gone home, and the building is mostly quiet. Why did he not say he will meet Talia somewhere else instead of waiting for her to get here? The apprehension of her arrival is making him restless.

Voices reach his ears, and when he turns around, he finds two hangar workers—Kord is one of them—escorting a petite figure. The men sound nervous, and they keep bowing their upper bodies to the other member of their group. As they walk closer, the Mandalorian summons the lights outside the _Crest_ to flicker on. The soft beams from his ship tell him what he already knows: Talia has arrived.

He notices that Kord and his fellow co-worker are looking at her with awe, their eyes wide like poultry eggs and their lips stretching into nervous smiles. And is that . . . fear, too?

When Talia glances in his direction, he dismisses the thought and focuses on her. He notes that she has not changed since their earlier meeting that day; however, her gold necklace with its pendant is gone, including the rest of her jewelry—only her Clan ring remains on her right hand. Her purple shawl is wrapped around her neck and shoulders, telling him that she must have covered her face as she traveled here.

“Thank you,” Talia says to the men and gives them both a warm smile. She dismisses them with a regal nod, and they return it with bows and friendly ‘you’re welcomes’ before making themselves scarce. “Hello again,” she greets him, and he nods at her. “How has your day been?”

“Probably not as eventful as yours,” he replies, deciding to keep Ryk’ken’s visit from her—at least, for now. As she steps closer to him, the lights from the _Crest_ shining down on her, he sees a hint of exhaustion settling behind her dark eyes. “You look tired,” he points out.

“Only a little. But I wanted . . . to come,” she whispers, her gaze dropping.

A big smile spreads across her lips, and the weariness in her eyes is replaced with happiness. Momentarily confused by the sudden change, the Mandalorian follows her line of sight. He looks down and sees the kid shuffling past him with his little arms swaying at his sides. When he nears Talia, the Mandalorian sees her kneel on the dusty ground of the hangar, obviously not caring that her expensive clothes are going to get dusty and dirty. He watches her open her arms for Vandar who then decides to jump into her outstretched hands. Talia’s quiet laughter reaches his ears as she scoops the kid in her arms and twirls him around.

The reunion causes a half-smile to form on the Mandalorian’s lips, and something warm and soothing throbs in his chest before spreading throughout the rest of his body.

“Why hello there, Vandar,” she says to the infant with so much warmth that one might think she is talking to her own child. Upon hearing his name coming from her lips, Vandar beams at the Onderonian woman. “And how are _you_ doing?” she asks, which earns her a giggle. “Are you giving this Mando a hard time keeping up with you?”

“No, not really,” the bounty hunter lies.

She glances his way, and something tells him that she just may know he is not being very truthful.

“He looks healthy,” she comments, returning her attention back to the bundle of joy in her arms. “And he looks the same size.”

“Were you expecting him to get bigger?” He walks past them, closer to the lowered ramp of his ship, and sees Talia delicately sliding her fingers across one of the baby’s pointy ears.

“Maybe a little,” she admits with a soft chuckle.

Like back on Cholganna, the Mandalorian cannot help but think that these two just look so right together. As he sneaks a glance over his shoulder at them, a sense of serenity, almost harmony, flows from both of them as Talia murmurs to the kid. Her voice is so low he is unable to hear what she is saying, but then, the likelihood of listening to sweet nothings and baby pampering does not appeal to him at all.

Deciding to give Talia some space with the gifted baby, the Mandalorian turns his back to them and wipes away a dark smudge on the _Crest_. He had a quiet meeting with Talia alone, so he figures he may as well let Vandar have one, too.

After a few moments, he hears a rustle of fabric behind him.

“I’ve forgotten what your _Razor Crest_ looked like,” Talia comments.

When he faces her, he finds her staring up at his ship, her dark eyes squinting over its beaten plating as if she is committing it to memory. As he thinks about it, he never did tell her the name of his ship. Maybe she had recognized its model when they first met.

“It’s not like your _Starlight_ ,” he replies, remembering her silver vessel, its structure sleek and elegant.

“True,” she says, dropping her gaze to the baby who is fiddling with the buttons on her sleeves. “I envy your freedom,” she quietly admits. “I’ve wanted to explore parts of the galaxy since I was little girl. And I did get to see some before coming back here. I bet you’ve been to a lot of places with the _Crest_.”

“I’ve seen my fair share over the years.”

She lifts her eyes to him. “And you’ve always travelled with this ship?”

“Yeah. It’s seen better days though,” he adds with a shrug. “But it’s home.”

“You know,” she remarks, her gaze taking in the _Crest_ as a whole, “it has this design . . . It reminds me of the ships during the Clone War.” Her voice is quiet, distant, and he knows she is scouring her wartime memories with her gifted uncle. “Where’d you get it?” she asks, peering at him again.

“It was my buir’s,” he shares. “Actually, she got it around that time. And she gave it to me later on.”

“Is she still alive?”

“No,” he quietly admits, feeling his adoptive mother’s loss like a hand pressing hard on a bruise. “She died on a job.”

Talia presses her lips together and drops her eyes, almost looking ashamed for bringing up this topic. He is about to tell her not to worry, but she breaks the brief silence by asking, “Was she a bounty hunter like you?”

There is no judgment in her voice even though he is all too aware of the fact that the Japrael System inhabitants do not approve of his occupation—and for good reason, too. At first, he wants to keep this piece of himself away from her, but when Talia focuses on him again, the baby unusually quiet in her arms, he senses a calming understanding emanating from her gaze.

“For a while,” he eventually tells her, his voice feeling just a little thick. “She left Death Watch at some point. Didn’t like where they were going. So, she turned to bounty hunting. Taught me a few tricks of the trade. But her partner turned on her. I wasn’t there at the time,” he reveals. “I was twenty.”

Seconds tick by, and neither of them say anything. He ends up tearing his eyes away from Talia’s, not wanting to see pity in her gaze if she gives him her condolences or if she apologizes for delving deeper into this subject.

“ _Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc_ ,” he hears her quietly chant. “ _Ni partayli, gar darasuum_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: Nee soo-COO-yee, gar keer-AH-deesh. Nee par-TIE-lee, gar dah-rah-SOOM; translation: “I’m still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal”; significance: a daily remembrance of those passed on)_

The old saying coming from her impresses him, even though he has said this to himself over and over again throughout the years. He looks her way and finds that she has moved closer to him without his knowledge. She offers him a comforting smile that is just as warm and genuine as the time when she touched the inside of his wrist all those weeks ago.

“What happened to her partner?” she asks him as she allows Vandar to hide his tiny face in her purple shawl.

“I tracked him down. He had a bounty on his head. So, I brought him in cold,” he states, his voice rigid with steel as hard as Beskar.

Talia hums at this, and he is not sure if it is out of agreement or disapproval. When she casts her gaze back onto the _Crest_ , he notices that Vandar has one of her braids wrapped around his hand. The three-strand locks that are interwoven together look thick in the baby’s grasp. They are glossy and appear to be soft to the touch, and it seems that Talia does not mind Vandar playing with the braid.

Having his companion here reminds the Mandalorian of the Nexu fur, so he says, “I got something for you.”

The glance Talia sends him is mixed with surprise and curiosity. “You don’t owe me a retirement gift, Ordo,” she lightly chuckles.

He smirks underneath his helmet as he walks up the ship’s ramp. “Bet you’ve got plenty today.”

“Plenty of knick-knacks and vases?” she plays along, trailing right behind him. “Then, yes.”

“Well, it’s not a gift, Kex,” he explains, standing in front of the cargo box that contains the pelt. “Can’t give you what already belongs to you.”

With nimble fingers he unlocks the box. Talia positions herself next to him, and out of the corner of his eye, he notices that she is no longer carrying the baby. He removes the box’s lid and quickly glances her way, wanting to gauge her reaction. Her eyes widen upon seeing the Nexu fur, its white coat with black stripes looking soft and fit for a queen. She smiles fondly at it and lays a hand on the pelt. Satisfaction fills his chest as he watches Talia’s thin fingers delicately run through the fur.

“I’d forgotten about this,” she murmurs before her eyes meet his. “You’re sure you don’t want it? You _were_ the one who killed him,” she says about the male Nexu he had defeated on Cholganna.

“I couldn’t have taken him down if you hadn’t weakened him first,” he reminds her. “It’s yours, Talia.”

She opens her mouth, no doubt to protest, but she ends up presses her lips together. He is relieved when she gives him a small smile and nods at him—he knows it is her quiet way of accepting the pelt. If she did not want it, he was uncertain as to what he would do with it. He would not be able to use it without thinking of her and the life-debt he owed her. Besides, the fur had suited her so well as it draped over her when she was unconscious and healing from her wound. And, he really cannot imagine using it as a blanket during his travels.

“I shall treasure this, Ordo,” she whispers. “ _Vor’e_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: VOHR-ay; translation: “Thanks”)_

“ _Ba’gedet’ye_ *,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders, trying not to feel too pleased by her reaction.

 _(_ * _pronounced: BAH-geh-DET-yeh; translation: “You’re welcome.”)_

He then notices that her eyes flicker to their right, as if something catches her attention. She cranes her neck in that direction before surveying him with an inquisitive gaze.

“Is that where you sleep?” she asks, pointing her chin at the long, deep compartment stationed next to the privy. When the door is closed, it appears to be a closet. But when it is open, like now, the inside of the compartment reveals to contain a hard stretcher-like cot with neither pillows nor blankets.

“Sometimes,” he answers, feeling a little surprised that she had never noticed this before.

“And you’ve been sleeping there since you got here?”

“There and the pilot’s chair.”

She blinks at him before saying, “Then I insist you come and stay with me.”

His muscles tense at her offer because the idea of living with her, possibly alone, makes him want to squirm. He has not stayed in the same building with a host in a while. Even on Sorgan he had a place of his own. If he agrees and gossipers like Nazim get wind of it, he will definitely be seen as one of her Mandalorian lovers—and he still needs to find out what that is all about.

Before he can say ‘no,’ she quickly adds, “Please, Ordo. It’ll be more comfortable at my house for both of you. And more secure than this hangar. Vandar will be safe there. My house is quite large, and he can have the freedom to move around without being exposed. And my staff is discreet,” she claims, checking on the baby who is playing with his can of nuts and bolts again. “They won’t let anyone know the two of you are staying with me.”

 _Staff? Never took her as the type to have people waiting on her hand and foot. But then,_ he reasons to himself, _she_ is _an important person here. And the head of her House._

Lodging free of charge with relaxing mattresses, fresh food, and security tempt him to accept her invitation, but the bounty hunter’s resolve hardens. He still feels uncomfortable about staying under the same roof with a woman he hardly knows, so he tries to refuse her offer as gently as he can by saying, “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Believe me: you won’t be,” Talia assures him, walking over to Vandar.

He watches her kneel in front of the green alien and pick up a nut. The small piece of metal lies in the palm of her hand, and she whispers something to Vandar. He catches the words “try” and “for me.” The alien’s brown eyes squint as he stares hard at the nut.

“I really don’t like leaving my ship alone for so long,” the Mandalorian argues, but he knows it is a pathetic excuse almost fringing on a lie. Stars! For weeks he had left the _Crest_ unattended on Sorgan, deep in the forest. And on Tatooine, he had entrusted it to be repaired by a snappy mechanic with an attitude.

“I’ll give the people here strict instructions not to disturb it,” she quietly bargains, her gaze never leaving the baby. She keeps her open hand still, and after several seconds, the nut begins to tremble before lifting into the air. Vandar giggles as it hovers above her hand a few inches before it plops back into her palm. Talia smiles at him and tells him that he did a good job.

“Leave it to me, Ordo,” she says, giving the metal nut back to the baby. Standing up, she turns to the Mandalorian. “Your ship will want for nothing while it stays here.”

Her words trigger a scene with mechanics, hangar security, and janitors crawling all over his ship. Before he can stop his tongue, he gruffly tells her, “I don’t want anyone poking around in it.”

“Then, I’ll let them know.”

 _By Mandalore!_ he inwardly huffs. _She’s dead-set on this, isn’t she?_

Like a man searching his files for something, throwing papers around a cluttered office, his mind scrambles for another excuse. In seconds, he comes up with one, but if he uses it, his pride will take a hit.

Not caring, he argues, “I can’t afford to stay long.”

She crosses her arms and glances down at the child. “And I can’t afford to be separated from him again anytime soon,” she murmurs.

Ever since she met the kid, he has known that she dotes on Vandar, but her confession still touches him. Before he can say anything more, Talia looks at him, her gaze firm as she says, “You are my guest, Ordo. And I’ll cover the housing for the _Crest_.”

“I can’t let you do that,” he automatically replies.

“But I want to,” she states, her accent laced with sincerity. “You should really accept help when it’s offered to you.”

The last sentence reminds him of when she followed him to Cholganna, lending her assistance when his ship had been on fire. He then thinks of the child and what she had encouraged him to do just now. If she can help him lift up a metal nut after reuniting with him for less than ten minutes, what else can she get the baby to do? The Mandalorian is at a loss on how to help Vandar progress with his gifts, and he is still unsure if he wants him to even use them. But what Talia had done with the nut—it was so innocent and simple. Maybe staying with her, despite his awkwardness, will benefit Vandar.

So, putting his own anxiousness aside, he nods at her. She smiles at his acceptance of her invitation, her eyes glowing with hope.

“Give me five minutes to pack some stuff,” he flatly says, walking past her.

“Of course,” he hears her reply.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

Iziz’s nightlife is louder than it was the first day he arrived on the planet. Their trio has been riding in a speeder that reminds the Mandalorian of some kind of taxi. Their driver is a droid, pulling the hovering four-seater transport with ease and smoothness.

For the past hour, they have been driving through the semi-empty streets of the Onderonian capital. Soft lights guide their way as their driver maneuvers past people strolling down the neighborhoods or lingering in groups in the marketplaces. Above, the night sky is a deep navy blue with silver stars twinkling brightly. The Dxun moon looms over the city, emerald green and massive.

During their ride from the hangar, Talia had asked him about his travels and his visit to Sorgan. In her lap was the kid, who seemed more than happy in sitting there as he watched the city roll past him. Talia seemed curious as to why the bounty hunter had chosen to stay on Sorgan for so long, but he figures she simply wanted to hear his skirmish with the Klantooinian raiders in more detail.

Seeing that there was not much for them to do as they traveled to her house, he decided to humor his Onderonian host. He ended up telling her everything about Sorgan—except, he tried not to mention Omera so much. _And_ he did not share with her his intention to leave the kid on that planet either. Instead, he recounted Cara’s plan to destroy the AT-ST and how bravely the villagers fought.

With Talia interrupting here and there with questions, time flies by, and before he knows it, their ride has come to a slow stop.

“We’re here,” she announces, and with the child in her arms, she jumps out of the cab with more enthusiasm than he had expected from her after a long day of playing politician.

He follows her out of the taxi and surveys her house. Well, it is not really a house. More like a mini-mansion with its old stone layout, numerous windows, and fancy, gilded front door painted in dark dandelion yellow. A lantern hangs above the threshold; its light makes the white archway look brighter and the yellow double-doors seem as if they are made of gold.

“Welcome to Dewan Manor,” Talia says beside him. “It’s been in the family for generations. It, uh, it belonged to my mother. She was the oldest child, so after she died, it was passed down to me. But I’ve hardly stayed here. Until recently,” she adds. “And I’m actually having it prepared to go to my uncle—my mother’s next sibling.”

The news surprises him. Who would give away this grand house and mention it as casually as Talia did? It is two-stories tall—well, three if he counts the roof walkway with coverings over it—and boasts of family history and aristocratic splendor. The stone-cut manor is exquisite from the outside, which makes him wonder what its interior looks like.

“You’re not planning on staying here then?” he asks her, not bothering to hide the astonishment from his gravelly voice.

“Only for a little while,” she says, letting Vandar play with one of her braids again. “I still want to stretch my wings and fly.”

He thinks the image suits her. She is an angel who has been trapped in a royal cage, invisibly chained by duty and family. But with her retirement, he expects she will soon soar into space on her wings of freedom and go places she has always longed to see.

With this thought in mind he returns to the taxi and removes his lone cargo box and the kid’s cradle. Meanwhile, Talia pays their droid driver. As the Mandalorian sets his luggage beside the house’s door and waits, he realizes that he is out of his depth, boarding here with Talia. He has never stayed in a building, a house, this fine before. His Tribe and its members are nomads, living in the Nevarro sewers with the rats and the filth. What does he know about etiquette?

Talia finishes paying the taxi droid and walks towards him, the child still tucked away in her arms. She reaches for the panel stationed at the entry’s side when one of the golden-looking doors suddenly swishes opens. There, standing underneath the threshold is a protocol droid. The 3PO unit has dull red plating, not too attractive but clean and polished. Despite the fact that its glowing yellow eyes look almost friendly, the Mandalorian feels his gut tighten by the unit’s presence.

 _Of course, Talia_ would _have a protocol droid,_ he inwardly grumbles.

“Mistress Talia,” it greets her. “I have been watching out for you.”

“Thank you,” she says. She always sounds so nice whenever she talks to these machines. “Please bring in our guests’ belongings.”

“Right away,” the unit replies.

The male droid has a welcoming yet soft voice, like a gentle breeze whispering through the trees. At first, the bounty hunter does not want it to touch his stuff, but when Talia disappears inside her house with the baby, his feet automatically follow them.

“My house is completely at your disposal,” he hears Talia say as he steps underneath the threshold. “Whatever you may want or need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

The moment his feet take him through the entryway, he comes to a complete stop. The “house” is not like any he has seen before. It is rectangular in shape and structure and is made of stone. Not too many lights are on, which prevent him from identifying the stone’s color, but he figures it may be beige with other hues of peach and sandstone.

Lying right before him is a vertical courtyard, the center of the house. It is evenly paved in sandstone, and in the middle is a water fountain. Its pool has a raised wall about three feet tall. Standing in its midst is the fountain itself, its design reminding him of an inverted mushroom. Its “stem” holds the “cap”, but the cap’s domed top is upside-down, spurting out a short pillar of water. Raining from the cap like tears is a light shower of water, its crystal-looking droplets falling into the fountain’s pool.

He walks further into the courtyard, barely noticing Talia putting the baby down and asking him if he likes his new lodging. The Mandalorian notices that beyond the water fountain is some greenery. The shrubs, small trees, and neatly trimmed bushes make the courtyard seem like some kind of oasis amidst the warm hues of the desert-colored walls.

Wondering why Talia only has a handful of lights turned on, he looks up and finds the night sky staring at him. A few stars are visible, but what dominates the view is Dxun. The lush moon faintly glows, keeping watch over the Manor, and he would not be surprised if Talia has stared at Dxun longingly, wishing she could go back there.

 _Well, now she can,_ his memory reminds him.

“Force fields,” she says, interrupting his surveillance.

“What?”

“I have force fields embedded up there,” she explains while pointing to the sides of her roof. “It keeps the elements out. And the humidity.”

He nods. It is a clever idea. That way insects and rain can stay outside and not ruin her well-tended to courtyard. However, he believes the walkways that are protected with coverings up on the roof are _not_ shielded by the force fields.

Slowly, he turns his body around, taking in the stone pillars and curved arches holding up the second floor. There are two sets of staircases flanking both sides of the front door, leading to the next level. Above, a simply patterned and see-through railing outlines the second floor, keeping anyone safe from an unpleasant fall. He notes that there are more pillars up there, connecting the railing and giving extra support to the roof.

“Over here,” Talia says, directing his attention to the right side of the house, “you’ll find a sitting room in that corner, near the garden. A dining room next to it—it’s partitioned off for now. And there—” She waves at a door tucked underneath the right staircase. “—is my study.”

On the left side of the house, she then points out a ballroom, a refresher, a short hallway that leads to the kitchen and storage area, and a library hiding beneath the left stairwell.

“And that’s the first floor,” she announces, standing beside the child.

A loud beeping pierces the quiet atmosphere, followed by a mechanical rolling sound digging into the stoned pavement. The Mandalorian turns to his right and spies R6-D12 emerging from the study.

“No, R6. I haven’t showed our guests upstairs yet,” Talia patiently tells the astrodroid.

The white and orange tin-can whistles at her, swiveling his cylinder-domed head. Vandar shuffles closer to it and presses his green hands against the droid’s legs. In response, R6 releases a whir then a few more beeps, which makes Talia chuckle.

“You remember R6?” she asks, picking up the child, and the bounty hunter gives her a curt nod. He wishes he could forget that sassy, rolling bucket of bolts. “I have four helpers around the house. And you’ve already met one,” she says, nodding at a mechanical presence behind him.

He looks over his shoulder and finds the red-plated protocol droid walking towards them. It had already brought in his cargo box and the kid’s cradle.

“This is Danaan Traxell and Vandar,” Talia explain to her droid-butler. Hearing her use the name she had given him back on Cholganna amuses him. “They are our guests for the foreseeable future.”

“Greetings,” the two-legged machine says to him. “A pleasure to meet you, Master Traxell. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is RU-B1, caretaker of Dewan Manor.”

“Or RUBY,” Talia interrupts. “As I like to call him.”

“Oh, forgive me,” the droid apologizes, its voice calm and quiet. “You can also address me as that, sir. And Master Vandar as well.”

The Mandalorian just stares at the red-plated machine with its golden eyes and silver linings. It is not as tall as a B2 battle droid, but the way it walks reminds him of the mechanical army that destroyed his homeworld. His hand twitches at his side, ready to yank out his pistol at a moment’s notice.

“RUBY,” his host kindly asks, “why don’t you take the luggage to their guest room for me?”

The droid complies with a whispered-like response. As it carries out its task, the bounty hunter can feel the tension in his muscles ease.

“Are all your helpers droids?” he asks her, trying to keep his tone flat.

“No. I have a maid named Gia. You’ve met her already,” she points out, and he tilts his head at her. “Gia gave you my message and the holo-communicator.”

He nods, remembering a handmaiden dressed in lilac. But it is not as if he really “met her.” All he saw were brown irises and heavy eye make-up.

“And then, there’s Solaria,” his host continues. “She prepares my meals. And she hardly leaves the kitchen, so you probably won’t see much of her.”

“You don’t make your own food?” he asks. Their meeting on Cholganna has showed him that she is more than capable of cooking.

“I can,” she defends. “But the only reason why I have Solaria here is because she . . . well, she reminds me to eat.”

The confession automatically prompts him to study Talia’s figure. She does not appear to have lost any weight in the last six weeks. However, he has always thought she is much too thin.

“And your last staff member?”

“Japp,” she replies. “He’s my handyman and gardener. He checks up on the house and comes when there’s something wrong, which is rare. And when it’s time to trim the garden. He works when no one’s around. I call him my ghost,” she adds with a fond smile. “Chances are, you won’t see him at all.”

 _We’ll see about that,_ the Mandalorian inwardly says, taking up the challenge.

“Let me show you the second floor,” she offers. Her astromech whistles at her, and she answers over her shoulder, “No, I’m having them say in the West Wing, R6. I think they’ll be more comfortable there.”

As he follows her up the staircase stationed at the front door’s left side, the bounty hunter hears the metal nuisance twitter something before rolling into the library underneath them.

With the baby still in her arms, Talia walks over to the railing and points across to the other side of the house.

“The East Wing has four bedrooms,” she shares with him, and he can hear Vandar ‘ooh’ at the view. “Two there, and two down that hall. All have refreshers.” She then waves her hand at an open room right above the garden. “And that’s an entertaining area.”

Down the East Wing’s hall, he spies a door closed, keeping the bedroom’s contents hidden from curious eyes. He figures that it must belong to Talia since the other doors are open despite their rooms being vacant.

“And the West Wing?” he asks.

She turns around tells him that the layout is the same as the East Wing. Then, she guides him down the hall to where, he believes, his quarters are.

“I really don’t use any of these rooms,” Talia admits, leading the way. “Just the study and the library. And my own room, of course,” she chuckles, but he detects a hint of loneliness in her accent. “I had mostly lived at the palace, and I’d come here now and then. Sometimes as a vacation or to work in peace. And then I’d swing by to check up on it,” she adds. “Taking care of the Manor is my responsibility. But I never stayed long. I didn’t want to be too far away from the political action.” She stands in front of an open door. “After I came back—and after I retired—I decided to just move in. For the time being.”

From her shy smile and the dimness in her gaze, the Mandalorian has a feeling that Talia is not very comfortable here, in her own home. But then, he realizes that she has been calling this place “the Manor” or “my house” the entire time—and neither of those descriptions have been laced with sentiment. To her, this building is simply a dwelling with grand designs and luxurious furniture that has been handed down to the next family member. Dewan Manor is not a home to the Angel of Onderon. It, he now understands, has just been another one of her gilded cages. That is, until she decided to pass it over to the next Dewan relative.

“This is your room,” she says, breaking into his thoughts. With a warm smile she gestures for him to walk inside first, so he does.

He enters into a suite with doors between a lounge area and the bedroom. As he stands in the former, he surveys couches, a holo-screen pinned to the wall, a small dining table with three chairs, a sideboard, shelves, a small balcony beyond, and lots of window space. The lounge is decorated in warm greens and browns with a handful of knick-knacks and artwork. Off to the side, RUBY is lowering the covers of the widows, giving him some privacy from the outside world.

Looking to his right, he sees his bedroom, which resembles the lounge in color and style. He spies his cargo box and the baby’s cradle beside a large bed with pillows and a thick mattress. His body suddenly aches to be enveloped by it.

Overall, he deems the suite as spacious, adequate, and not excessively decorated or furnished. There is a masculine style to it which pleases him, and he cannot help but feel that, out of the goodness of her heart, Talia is spoiling him—a revelation that makes him give a half-smirk. She had seemed so lonely in this house, but she is more than willing to lay out the red carpet for her guests.

It occurs to him that his host had placed him on the other side of house, away from her own room. She must remember how much he values his privacy, and he is very appreciative of the space she is giving him. And instead of feeling uncomfortable or thinking that he should never have accepted her invitation to stay here, he finds himself thanking her.

“This,” he says, gesturing to the suite, “is . . . very nice, Talia. _Vor’e_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: VOHR-ay; translation: “Thanks”)_

He sends her an appreciative nod, and it earns him a relieved smile. It seems she was worried that he would not like his quarters.

“It’s my pleasure,” she breathes, putting down Vandar.

As the baby explores the suite, RUBY shuffles towards the door, asking in its whispering voice if there is anything either of them would like for it to do.

“Are you hungry?” Talia turns to the bounty hunter. “Do you think Vandar will like something to eat?”

They both scan the room for the kid and find him hiding underneath the small dining table. His green, pointy ears brush up against the chairs’ legs.

“The little womp rat’s always hungry,” he admits. “But I’m fine.”

“RUBY,” she tells her droid-butler, “I know it’s late, but can you find out if Solaria is still in the kitchen?”

“I am sorry, Mistress Talia,” RUBY replies quietly. “But Madam Solaria had departed for home ten minutes before you arrived with your guests. Shall I contact her and ask her to return?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. But thank you,” Talia says. “I’ll take Vandar down to the kitchen myself to see if he’s hungry. Can you please wait in the hall for me, RUBY?”

“Yes, indeed, Mistress.”

With a bow, the protocol droid leaves the suite, and the door slides shut behind it.

“I know you don’t trust droids,” she remarks, her accent elegant yet full of understanding. “I’ll try to keep RUBY out of your way. And R6, too.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll arrange for your meals to be sent up here at whatever times you’d prefer,” she informs him. A small smirk plays on her lips. “Unless you’re willing to take off your helmet during mealtimes with me and Vandar.”

The gentle poke makes him shake his head at her. She still will not give up trying to convince him that removing his helmet is not a disgrace.

“Very well,” she sighs, and there is a splash of amusement in it. “You and your strict code of honor, Ordo.”

“You and your many royal titles,” he pokes back.

“Touché,” she chuckles before returning to their previous topic. “Your meals will be waiting for you on the sideboard over there.” She nods at the table-like furniture piece stationed against the wall. “You can alert the staff when you’re done. Just press the intercom button on the door panel.”

She then explains that someone will knock on the door and wait for him to grant them access. A staff member will enter and remove any of the food items and cutlery. It humbles him that she is doing all she can to accommodate him and work around his Tribe’s beliefs, especially when it comes to his helmet.

“I’m grateful,” he tells her. “For what you’re doing.”

“I’m the one who should be grateful,” Talia says as she walks over to his bedroom and scoops up the baby. When he is in her arms, she returns to the entryway and adds, “You came all this way from the Outer Rim, _and_ you’ve agreed to stay here for a little bit. I’m honored to have you as my guest.” She looks down at Vandar and smiles at him. “Now, youngling. How do you feel about a late-night snack? I believe I may have some Kiran fruit that you might like.”

“Don’t feed him too much,” the Mandalorian warns her, and he ignores a whisper telling him that he is starting to sound like a parent. “Winta,” he mentions the little girl he had told Talia about, “she liked to sneak the kid treats all the time, and I think his stomach was getting too round.”

His host nods at him before talking to Vandar. “I guess we can’t have you getting chunky now, huh youngling?”

The baby giggles at her, and she bobs his nose gently with her finger, which earns her a louder laugh from him.

“What time would you like your morning meal?” she asks the bounty hunter.

He thinks about it, going through a time-table before answering, “An hour or so after dawn. If that won’t be too much trouble.”

“It won’t be,” she promises. “I’ll have RUBY inform Solaria. Would you like anything special?”

“Just an example of an Onderonian breakfast,” he replies.

“That can be arranged.” She smiles at him. “Solaria loves impressing newcomers with her cooking.”

After he gives her a nod, Talia turns to leave but hesitates for a moment. She looks at him, and he notices that she runs her teeth over her bottom lip. She seems to do that when she is nervous or choosing her words carefully.

“I was wondering,” she slowly begins, “if maybe Vandar can stay with me during the nights. Just so you can have some uninterrupted rest and _complete_ privacy,” she reasons. “I’m sure it’s long overdue.”

He does not miss her emphasis—nor what she is implying. Ever since he had rescued the child, he has been always watching him, feeding him, and making sure he stays out of trouble. For nearly two months straight he has been baby-sitting, and he has hardly been able to just relax, even at night. Talia’s offer to look out for the child makes him realize how much he has been longing for some alone time. Some may call this freedom—freedom away from the responsibility that usually accompanies the caretaking of a child. Do parents and guardians feel like this? Weary of always watching out for their charges? Stars! He never wants to be a parent; he does not think he can handle it.

“Sure,” he answers Talia. “You can have him. But you let me know if he becomes too much of a handful, okay?”

She smiles warmly at him and nods. “I’ve helped raise my cousin’s children. I think I can handle this little one.”

With that, she takes the baby’s box-cradle, bids the Mandalorian a “goodnight,” and exits his room with the gifted infant in her arms. Once the door closes behind her, he glances around his quarters, relishing the peace and quiet.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_The next morning . . ._

It is nearly two hours after dawn, and he is donning the last pieces of his Mandalorian armor. He had slept sound and hard last night and had woken up more refreshed than he has in weeks. His bed had relaxed his aching body, and a part of him was tempted to sleep in. But with his mind clearing from a drowsy fog, reminding him where he was, he kicked the cool sheets off his legs and headed for the refresher.

Over the next hour he showered, ate a generous serving of breakfast, and simply enjoyed being in a room of his own where he could wander around without worrying about someone unexpectantly walking in. Dressed in his tunic and trousers, sans his helmet, he had taken a few minutes to peer out his room’s widows and stare at the vast city of Iziz with clear eyes. There was so much to see, so many streets to become familiar with just in case he needed to grab the kid and leave. The _Crest_ was about an hour’s taxi drive away from Dewan Manor, and he would have to know the different routes between both locations.

So, with that in mind, he slides his helmet on, fastens his belts into place, and wraps his cloak around his neck. Ready for the day and curious to know if Talia had gotten any sleep with the baby, he leaves his room and strides down the hallway of the West Wing. He figures his companions are probably eating their morning meal in the dining room, so a quick glance from the balcony overlooking the courtyard will be enough to confirm his assumption.

The sunlight streams through the open roof of the courtyard, painting the sandstone walls in desert hues. The arches and pillars almost gleam as the rays shine down on them. The Mandalorian sets his hands on the balcony’s railing, fully appreciating what the Manor looks like in the daytime. The garden off to his left is green and lush, and the fountain’s water droplets shimmer like broken glass merging into the pool below.

He hears the sound of metal hitting stone to his right and turns in that direction. RUBY shuffles towards him, the droid’s red-plating looking brighter than yesterday.

“Good morning, Master Traxell,” it greets him in its wind-like voice. “I hope your room is to your satisfaction.”

“It is,” he curtly replies, crossing his arms. It will take some getting used to seeing a droid without eliminating it.

“I have been instructed to inform you that Mistress Talia sends her regrets for not seeing you this morning.”

“Why?” the Mandalorian shoots back. “Where is she?”

“She was summoned to the Unifar Temple and left not too long ago with R6-D12. She wishes for me to pass on her apologies for having to leave you and Master Vandar alone so abruptly.”

“So, she left the kid here?”

“Yes,” RUBY answers calmly. “I was in the process of bringing Master Vandar to you, but the child got distracted by the garden. He disappeared in the shrubs and has been playing there for approximately two minutes.”

The Mandalorian scans the greenery below but sees no signs of his ward. As RUBY asks to be of service, he ignores the droid and stalks down the stairs. With heavy and determined steps, his boots echo loudly in the courtyard. He soon passes by the water fountain, still searching for the baby.

“Vandar,” he calls. “Where are you?”

One of the shrubs planted at the base of a small tree rustles with movement, and he hears a soft cooing muffled inside its luscious depths. With a resigned sigh, he strides towards it, kneels in front of the bush, and parts its leafy branches with his gloved hands.

Nothing.

The pitter-patter of feet reaches his ears, so he swivels his body in that direction. His eyes catch the end of the kid’s tunic as it flutters behind a neatly trimmed bush.

He humors his ward’s game of hide-and-seek and remarks, “You can’t hide from me very long, you little womp rat. Finding people is my job.”

Standing up, he walks over to the bush and expects to find Vandar behind it easily. However, the other side of the shrub is empty, save for more leaves and various other kinds of plant-life. He hums to himself, confused; he could have sworn the baby was hiding right here.

A giggle penetrates the soothing sound of the water fountain, and he glances over his shoulder. There, balancing his little body on top of the fountain’s wall is the child. His arms are stretched out, trying to steady his little body as he waddles at the edge of the wall. A proud smile forms on his green lips, and the thin hairs atop his head are crowned with water droplets.

“Vandar,” the Mandalorian warns, “be careful.”

But the instant he utters the last word the baby loses his balance. He falls into the pool with a surprisingly big splash, sending droplets of liquid diamonds all over the patio. Quickly, his guardian races to him and sees him thrashing in the pool, barely able to keep his green head above the water.

In seconds, the Mandalorian plunges his hands into the pool and fishes out Vandar. His gloves are soaked as he holds onto the baby with one hand while gently patting his little back with the other. Vandar, completely drenched, spits water right into his face—well, his helmet—and coughs.

After a minute or so, the child stops sputtering out water, and the man breathes out a sigh of relief.

“See? That’s what happens when you’re not careful,” he reproaches him.

Vandar’s brown eyes are wide with an apology, and the Mandalorian cannot find it in himself to scold him anymore. Instead, he removes his gray cloak and wraps it around the soaked infant. He scans the empty courtyard, glad that there are no witnesses to see the slightly embarrassing scene.

As he makes a bee-line for the stairs and his room, he says to the kid, “Let’s keep this . . . episode between us, okay?”

The last thing he wants is for Talia to find out the baby could have drowned in her fountain’s pool during a short game of hide-and-seek with him.

* * *

Sunny, the R3 astromech unit, & Dacob Ryk'ken, Viceroy of Dxun and Clan Leader of Onderon

**** INTRODUCING: Talia's protocol droid, RU-B1 (aka RUBY) ****

Dewan Manor: Front Door, Courtyard Water Fountain, General Layout/Design

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando's first meeting with Ryk'ken: Chapters 20-21 of "My Weapon, My Religion"
> 
> More information on Dacob Ryk'ken: Chapter 9 (second half) of "Bleeding Beskar"


	5. Worn Out

Chapter V: Worn Out

A few days have passed since he and the kid relocated to Dewan Manor. To keep himself busy, the Mandalorian has been scouring the neighborhood and district around Talia’s family house. One of his goals is to know the area just as well as his host, even if that is a tall order he has given himself. However, that does not stop him from memorizing escape routes and trying to become familiar with traffic during the days and nights.

Yesterday, he had visited the _Crest_ , to make sure that it has not been tampered with. True to Talia’s word, the hangar workers have left it alone. On foot during a semi-busy day, the trip had taken him almost an hour and a half. On speeder, fifty minutes. As of right now, he knows the streets and alleyways, leading to his ship, cold. Though he is not satisfied with this, he knows that by next week he will be more than acquainted with the ins and outs of routes.

So far, his stay at the Manor has been . . . charming—a word he really did not think he would use, despite the fact that it describes his visit perfectly. His quarters are more than comfortable, and he is enjoying his privacy. Talia has been a good host—not that he is surprised. Even on Cholganna, she had always been very generous and kind. And what makes his stay even more pleasant is that she has taken the baby off his hands by entertaining him, feeding him, and playing with him for hours. The day after he and Vandar had arrived, she brought out some toys that her nephews and niece had occupied themselves with when they were younger. It was perplexing to watch the baby stack up some blocks by using his mind.

And speaking of Vandar, he has been following RUBY around as the droid completes its butler and caretaker duties. Of course, the Mandalorian still does not trust that two-legged machine with its ghost-like voice. Talia keeps apologizing to him whenever they find Vandar at RUBY’s heels. However, both her apologies and his ward’s continuous trailing of the droid have “softened” the Mandalorian. He tries not to mind the one-sided friendship between the two unlikely companions just as long as he or Talia is watching RUBY.

He is thinking of going to Boma’s Brews later on today, for informational purposes only. He is curious to know Nazim’s opinion of a certain Dxunian Viceroy. Ever since his conversation with Ryk’ken, his memory nags at him with doubts of Talia and her best friend’s empty threat. Plus, he wants more intel on the Demon Moon. Yesterday, Talia had baby-talked to Vandar about showing him the place where she lived with her parents. Nazim mentioned of having relatives on Dxun, and the Mandalorian is not sure if he wants to visit there anytime soon. If the moon is like Cholganna, dank and humid, he just may keep the baby on Onderon while Talia disappears for a private holiday.

Right now, he has just finished eating a late afternoon meal in his room. Talia had been gone for a few hours to meet with some kind of contact, meaning the baby is here with him. The little one is in the process of waking up, his pointy ears twitching and his nose wrinkling. His room is so quiet that a knock on the door actually startles the Mandalorian.

Quickly, he reaches for his helmet and slides it back on. He then walks over to the door and presses a button on the side panel. It swooshes open, and he finds RUBY standing before him, his gold eyes glowing.

“Forgive my intrusion, Master Traxell,” the red-plated droid greets him softly. “But since Mistress Talia is not here, I calculated that you would be the best person to confer with.”

“What’s this about?” he coolly demands. The machine has been giving him a wide berth since he arrived—compliments from Talia no doubt, for which he has been grateful for.

“We have a very important visitor,” RUBY notifies him in its whispering-like voice. “I attempted to inform her that Mistress Talia is currently absent from the Manor, but she ignored me and entered the Manor before I could stop her. And I am not sure—”

“Who is it?” he snaps, already striding down the hallway. Behind him, he can hear the droid shuffling its metal feet over the rug-covered floor.

“It is my mistress’ cousin,” comes the reply.

At this, the Mandalorian abruptly stops right in front of the second floor’s balcony. Like lightning, he spins around, his grey cloak swaying in the air. His gut tells him that there is only one female cousin of Talia’s that can be described as “a very important visitor,” and he glares at the droid for springing this on him.

“You couldn’t have told me that sooner?” he barks.

Before RUBY can respond, a curious Onderonian accent echoes throughout the courtyard. “I don’t know you.”

The voice belongs to a woman, and its sounds excited yet older, much older than he would expect such enthusiasm to come from. The Mandalorian briefly closes his eyes to steel himself for a meeting he is not prepared for. With his back to her and to the center of the Manor, he fixes his hard gaze on RUBY.

“Go back to the kid,” he quietly instructs through a clenched jaw. “And bring him to me when he’s awake.”

“Yes, Master,” RUBY happily answers before re-entering the hall.

With that being settled, the Mandalorian turns around and peers into the courtyard below him, meeting the hazel eyes of Thea Dendup Tor, the former Queen of Onderon.

 _Talia,_ he inwardly summons his host, _you better get here soon._

“Good afternoon,” he greets the older woman while stomping on any kind of nervousness. He begins heading for the staircase as he says, “I’m Lady Talia’s—”

“New favorite?”

The assumption makes him stop walking. He snaps his head in Thea’s direction and finds her pressing her crimson lips together as if hiding a knowing smile. Gripping the balcony’s railing, he descends the stone stairs, and he can feel Thea watching him with unsubtle eyes.

“No, I’m a guest,” he clarifies, taking in her white clothing.

“Same thing.” Thea shrugs before releasing a giggle that should be coming from a teenager and not a fifty-year-old woman. The observation then makes him realize she must be having one of those outbreaks that Nazim had told him about, in which Thea’s mind reverts back to a younger version of herself.

“Tallie _always_ has her new favorites stay with her during their training,” the former queen reveals with another giggle that lights up her oval-shaped face.

 _What? She never said anything like that,_ he thinks to himself. _Talia said she hardly lived here._

He is down in the courtyard, standing a respectable distance away from his host’s . . . ill cousin. While he surveys her, he notices her eyes also look him over, from his helmet down to his boots.

As he noted before, Thea is dressed in white. Her tunic is loose, hiding her hour-glass figure, and reaches past her knees. With its billowy long sleeves, the tunic’s material is see-through, simply covering her thin-strapped blouse underneath—for modesty’s sake, he figures. The trousers she has chosen are also white, but it appears to be the most form-fitting piece of clothing she is wearing.

Down below, she has donned a pair of crimson leather slippers decorated with gold beads. While the beads match her large, hooped earrings in color, her footwear's color compliments her shawl and full lips. The former is wrapped around her neck like a scarf, its crimson material draping over her shoulders and hanging behind her back.

Thea’s skin is lightly tanned, almost fair; she probably has not been allowed to wander in the sun very much these past few months. Her once black hair is streaked with gray, but that proof of older age does not dampen her natural beauty. She has her semi-dark locks gathered together in a half-back style, which allows her chest-length hair to cascade down her back.

“I’m a friend,” he tries to correct the woman’s assumption with as much professionalism and respect as he can muster. “And I don’t need any training.”

“A friend?” she asks, almost suggestively. “A man with such a husky voice like yours, just a friend?”

“Um, yes.”

Thea stalks closer to him and raises a hand. For a moment, he wonders if she expects him to kiss it, but she reaches for his silver chest-plate and runs a delicate finger over its smooth, cool surface. He forces himself not to flinch—he does _not_ want to end up on the wrong side of royalty.

“What attractive armor,” she remarks, her Onderonian accent thick.

When she looks up at him, he notices how much taller she is compared to Talia. Her cousin is around five-foot-four, and he guesses that Thea surpasses her at least three inches. An overwhelmingly sweet scent reaches his nostrils, making him wonder if it is coming from Thea’s perfume or soap.

“It looks as perfect as the day it was forged,” the woman with eight years seniority murmurs about his armor. “Are you that good of a fighter, Mando, that you don’t get scratches on it?”

Her eyes rake over him once again, and it is then that he realizes the former Queen of Onderon is actually flirting with him. He feels his neck warm up while the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. Not knowing what to do or say, he merely blinks at the married woman.

 _But she probably doesn’t even remember she’s a wife and a mother,_ he reminds himself. However, that awareness does not make this . . . situation any less strange and uncomfortable and inappropriate for him.

With a respectful nod, he slowly backs away from Thea. At first, she seems disappointed that he wants some space between them, and he is thankful she does not pursue him.

“Lady Talia isn’t here, your Majesty,” he tells her, trying to be formal yet gentle at the same time. “I don’t think—”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupts him, waving a dismissive hand. “RUBY said that already. But I know she won’t mind if I stay and wait for her.”

She holds her hands behind her back and glides towards the water fountain with as much elegance as belonging to a princess. He watches her perch on top of the fountain’s wall as if she has all the time in the world. Glancing in his direction again, Thea crooks her finger at him, silently commanding him to join her.

His first instinct tells him to decline, to make up some excuse that can help him escape her presence, but he thinks of Talia. She has done so much, taking care of the child and him; the least he can do is to keep a close eye on her mentally ill cousin for an hour—but no longer than that.

So, he straightens his shoulders and walks closer to Thea; however, he leaves a respectable distance between them.

“Well, Mando,” the woman begins in a teenage-like manner, “you obviously know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Traxell,” he automatically supplies. “Danaan Traxell. It’s an honor to meet you.” Taking a stab in the dark at Thea’s current mental age, he gives her a slight bow and adds, “Princess Thea.”

“And it is my pleasure to meet you . . . Dan.”

The fake name, shortened by flirtation, makes his muscles tense. Her hazel eyes stare at him expectantly, and he is not sure what to do next.

“You shouldn’t be rude,” she admonishes him with a teasing smile. “Most Mandos around here would have taken off their helmets by now. Especially in front of royalty.”

He opens his mouth to say what he always does whenever people want him to remove his helmet, but the metal clattering on the stairs saves him. Swallowing a sigh of relief, he glances behind him and spies RUBY descending the West Wing’s staircase. Through the balcony railing’s see-through design, he catches sight of a green head with pointy ears. For a moment, he is not sure whether to curse or bless the newcomers’ timing.

“Master Traxell,” RUBY greets them, its voice louder than it usually is. “Your Royal Highness. Please forgive my interruption. But Master Vandar is awake.”

The two unlikely of companions join them, and the Mandalorian can hear the former queen giggle at the intrusion. RUBY leads Vandar to the center of the courtyard, the sun’s rays shining down on the droid’s red-plating.

“And who is this?” Thea asks in a way that adults do when baby-talking to an infant. At her question, a suddenly shy Vandar hides behind RUBY’s legs, his ears peeking behind thin metal. Thea chuckles and queries, “Is he yours, Dan? Or did you and Tallie adopt him together?”

As she laughs at her own teasing, the Mandalorian almost chokes on his breath. Although he knows that Thea does not even seem to take this seriously, the knowledge still cannot prevent the heat from spreading from his neck up to his ears. Nor can it remove the twist in his gut.

“Your Majesty,” RUBY interrupts, bowing to Thea. “May I offer you some refreshments? Baked goods or tea?”

This is the second time the protocol droid has saved him, and he is starting to feel that perhaps he will treat RUBY better in the future. But that will all depend if he survives Thea’s visit.

Like a queen—or maybe like a spoiled princess—their royal guest waves a dismissive hand at the droid-butler. “Some shig please,” she commands. “And have it brewed strong.”

As RUBY bows to her, the baby shuffles over to his guardian and hides in the thin depths of his gray cloak. The droid disappears into the kitchen, and the Mandalorian’s mind scrambles with what to say—what to do—with Thea. How is someone supposed to act in front of royalty? Should he wait for her to bring up a topic? He had not expected to meet anyone from Talia’s family. If he had, he would have prepared or asked her for some advice. And speaking of Talia, what in the name of Concord Dawn is taking her so long to get back here? She said she would return to the Manor within two hours, and if his mental clock is correct, that was fifteen minutes ago. To make matters “worse,” he cannot contact her right now with the device that she had given him and demand to know where she is—it would be rude to Thea.

“Solarian or Kiran?”

“What?” he asks, pulled from his thoughts. Vandar has overcome his shyness and is waddling to the back of the courtyard, straight for the garden.

“Which are you from?” Thea queries as she dips her hand in the pool’s fountain. “Solaris or Kira City? I doubt you’re Izizian. But maybe you’re Dxunian.”

“I’m from Mandalore,” he replies, following his ward whilst maintaining a wide berth from the former queen. But she turns her body in order to keep an eye on both of them.

“Oh, my,” she gasps, surprised yet sounding pleased. She wiggles her fingers in an attempt to dry her wet hand. Water droplets fall back into the pool. “Tallie really did hit the jackpot. You must have impressed her.”

He halts in his steps, his boots sinking into the grass. “I don’t think I follow you, your Highness.”

“Did she say where she went?” she changes the subject as if she had not heard him. “RUBY didn’t mention it.”

“Something about meeting a contact.”

“As secretive as always, isn’t she?”

_You’re telling me. And is RUBY rubbing sticks together to make a fire for the tea? Blasted droid’s been gone too long._

Thea rises from her seat on the fountain pool’s wall and moves towards him like a nymph floating on water. His gut tells him to not insult her by relocating again, so he forces himself to stay put. Thankfully, she stands on the other side of a neatly trimmed bush—which reminds him that he has yet to catch a glimpse of the ghost-gardener, Japp.

“Are _you_ one of my cousin’s secrets?” she murmurs, her accent low and coated with flirtation.

The rays from the sun highlight Thea’s grey hairs, making the rest of her locks glow like a faint halo.

“I, uh—” His throat suddenly feels tight.

“I wish I could be as free as her,” Thea sighs, once again abruptly changing the subject. “I can’t go anywhere without an escort.”

Seeing this loophole as a rescue, he remarks, “I don’t see anyone else here with you.”

“I left my guards outside. They’re such a nuisance.” She strolls parallel to the trimmed bush, gliding a hand over its leafy top. “I didn’t have them until recently.”

Although he doubts that since she was the Queen, he reminds himself that Thea is currently living in the past. A heavy security team would have been assigned to her the moment she was deemed politically indispensable. If he remembers correctly, that would have happened when she was twenty-one, right after the Empire executed her brother, Ramsis. And this means, psychologically-speaking, is where and when Thea is at the moment.

Deciding to risk this deduction, he comments, “Your guards are doing their job. They’re protecting the future Queen of Onderon.”

A groan, resembling a whine, comes from her. She looks over her shoulder at him and says, “Not you, too. You sound just like Tallie. I didn’t ask to become queen. I’m not supposed to be next. My brother . . .”

Her voice cracks, and she turns away. Vandar decides at that moment to dash out of the bushes and run towards the sandstone pillars holding up the West Wing. In order to give the distressed princess some privacy to collect herself, the Mandalorian walks past her and follows the little one.

Several seconds tick by, and he has stationed himself at the northwest corner of the courtyard, his back to the ballroom’s closed doors. He hears a huff from Thea as Vandar weaves in and out of the sunlight and shadows.

“Do you know what they’re already trying to get me to do?” She crosses her arms and plops on the fountain’s wall. “They’re trying to marry me off. To a boy!”

He remembers Thea is three years older than her husband, Kavan Tor. So, if she has a twenty-one-year-old mentality, then Kavan must be eighteen to her. Most young women would share her opinion about late teens. In fact, people in general would agree with her.

His mind wanders to Talia, who is about eight years younger than her cousin. Would she not be thirteen in Thea’s mind? But she has been talking about Talia as if they are the same age, as if she had come to Dewan Manor to purposefully gossip or complain to her equally aged relative.

_Stars! This memory sickness is strange._

“And he seems so juvenile!” his guest exclaims. “A little handsome, I’ll admit. So what if he shows promise to be attractive? But—ugh!”

In an attempt to gain sympathy, Thea’s lips form a small pout, and her eyes plead with him to understand. A pitter-patter of metal feet save him from having to answer her. RUBY returns to the courtyard and sets a tray filled with tea things onto a table which is positioned off to the side. The steady drips of the fountain’s teardrop water and the soft clinking of expensive cups and saucers fill up the silence.

While Thea waits to be served her tea, the Mandalorian notices Vandar skipping towards RUBY. Not wanting the womp rat to get stepped on by the occupied droid, he intercepts and snatches him. He hears Thea giggle at this, but he ignores her for the moment.

RUBY shuffles over to the former queen and presents her with her desired beverage. As she hesitantly sips her steaming tea, the protocol droid turns to him.

“Master Traxell, would you like a cup of tea as well?”

“No thanks,” he calls over his shoulder as he puts Vandar down on the other side of the courtyard. At the relocation, the baby frowns and then trots around the pillars supporting the East Wing.

When the Mandalorian decides he needs to focus again on Thea, he turns around, his back to the study. RUBY has re-entered the kitchen, and he finds it unnerving that Thea had moved from sitting on one side of the fountain to the other. And from the way her hazel eyes are lingering on his armor, he strongly suspects she did that just so she could keep on watching _him_.

“I can see why Tallie favors Mandos,” she remarks over her cup before taking another delicate sip. “Your armor is more than appealing, if you get my meaning. And here I thought Surjay was the one she liked,” Thea sighs, sounding confused. “She’s seemed so happy lately.”

 _Okay, she needs to stop thinking like this,_ he firmly decides, crossing his arms. _And who’s Surjay?_

“Lady Talia is an ally. Nothing more,” he states in a tone that dares her to argue with him.

“You said ‘friend’ before,” she points out.

“Clearly, our definitions of the word aren’t the same.”

“Then why hasn’t she told me about you?” Thea throws at him while setting her cup and saucer beside her. “We’ve been through a lot together, and I don’t think she would’ve kept you to herself. Unless . . .”

She eyes him suspiciously, and for a moment, her expression transitions from a young woman to someone much older. He wonders if he just caught a glimpse of the queen she once was, trying hard to uncover a conspiracy or to sort out a political solution.

“You’re not some son of a diplomat or Clan Leader, are you?” she finally asks.

“What? No.”

“Because if you are,” she continues, ignoring him, “then it’s obvious you’re here so she can get to know you _better—_ ” She winks at him suggestively. “—before she agrees to a marriage alliance.”

“Who said anything about marriage?” he demands.

“I know the family’s been after her to get married,” Thea chatters on. “But she’s been fighting it. Something about her time on Coruscant—which I can’t share with you. But since you’re here,” she figures aloud, tapping her chin with her fingers, “maybe she’s changed her mind about a union.”

 _All right,_ he thinks, not at all amused at the direction their conversation has turned to. _It’s time to stop this. Now._

“Your Majesty,” he slowly begins, his voice restraining his annoyance. “With all due respect, you’re jumping to conclusions.”

Before he can continue, he hears a swooshing noise coming from beyond the garden. Figuring that it must be the back door opening, he feels a spark of hope igniting in his chest. He looks past Thea, and he swallows a sigh of relief when Talia emerges from the shadows with R6 rolling behind her.

_Thank Mandalore she’s back!_

She is wearing a dull canary-yellow tunic that reaches above her knees. It has buttons lining from her stomach up to her round-cut collar, and her long sleeves sit atop her wrists. Her trousers are white, matching Thea’s in material and style. Down below, she has put on slippers that compliment her tunic, and wrapped around her neck like a scarf is a sea-green shawl with a design of white diamonds peppering the casual-looking fabric. Flyaway hairs have escaped her pony-tail and dangle beside her tanned cheeks. He even spies a few braids tangled in the hairstyle.

Across her shoulders is a brown leather satchel, and a long gold necklace with a green pendant hangs from around her neck. He also notices that her looped earrings are almost an exact replica of Thea’s. It strikes him as . . . peculiar that the women’s style match one another’s as if they had planned outfits the day before.

When Talia’s gaze roams from the child—who is waddling towards her—to him and then to her cousin, her eyes widen.

“Thea? What are you doing here?” she asks, her long pony-tail swaying behind her as she walks closer to her unexpected guest. She waves a hand to R6, and the astromech rolls by, disappearing into her study.

“Tallie!” Thea jumps from her seat and skips over to her. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting to see you for so long! But your Mando ‘friend’ has been entertaining me.”

The Mandalorian watches the women exchange kisses to each other’s cheeks before Thea wraps her arms around her cousin’s neck. As Talia returns the embrace, she sends him a questioning look over her cousin’s shoulder. Not knowing what she is asking him, he simply shrugs at her. Meanwhile, Vandar gapes at the women and saunters towards his guardian, clearly not liking that Talia’s attention is no longer focused on him at the moment.

 _The little ham,_ the Mandalorian thinks with a smirk.

After the cousins pull apart from their affectionate greeting, Talia repeats her earlier question: “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I come see my dear cousin?” Thea answers, looping her arm through her relative’s and guiding them both to the towering water fountain. “You’ve said I’m always welcome.”

“And you are, but—”

Thea interrupts her by swiveling around. Even though her back is to the Mandalorian, he can still hear her as she whispers—and not very quietly—to her cousin. Yet, he gets the feeling that she wants him to listen in.

“I like him,” she says, dragging her words. “He’s so mysterious. And that armor of his! Is he just as handsome underneath?”

“Thea!” her cousin hisses at her, her cheeks flushing a bright pink.

Normally, he would have darted out of the room or at least squirmed from this awkward situation, but seeing Talia look so flustered, so embarrassed, roots him to the floor like one of her trees planted in the courtyard. So far, he has not seen such a reaction like that from her. People may think him cruel for viewing her embarrassment as both amusing and intriguing, but he does not care. He ignores what Thea had implied and feels his smirk widen. Next to him, the child reaches up for him, and his guardian bends down and scoops his ward in his arms.

“Why’s he here?” the former queen asks in a way that reminds him of someone begging for a juicy story. “You should have told me. And the baby, too!”

Talia clears her throat and spares him an apologetic glance. “Thea,” she patiently explains, “he’s my friend.”

_Oh, no. Here we go again._

“Yes, yes, so he claims,” her cousin says in a dismissive manner. “But you’ve said the same thing about Surjay.” At this, Talia flinches at the name, which he finds interesting. “And what happened to him anyways? I thought you really liked him.”

“Traxell is just—”

“You don’t call him ‘Dan’ or even ‘Danaan’?” Thea gasps as she forces them both to sit on the fountain’s wall. Her Onderonian accent does not sound as enthusiastic as it was before. “Then, he’s right: you really are just allies.”

“Yes, Thea.”

“So, you’re training him?”

 _Again with the training,_ he muses, slightly annoyed.

Talia sends her cousin a critical look. “And why would I have a recruit staying here? At my family house?”

“You always do that,” the older-turned-younger woman replies with a shrug.

Shaking her head, Talia states, “One time, Thea. It was just one time.”

“Well, then,” Thea giggles. “Surjay must’ve been _really_ special.”

Again, Talia flinches at the name, making his curiosity towards the unknown man grow even more. Her first reaction was obvious surprise, but this one is a mixture of pain and sadness. And something tells him, as he feels Vandar squirming in his arms, that this Surjay is another person that Talia lost.

“ _He_ didn’t stay the night,” she firmly insists, her jaw clenched and her dark eyes avoiding her cousin’s gaze.

“Whatever you say,” Thea replies in a sing-song voice. She winks at her, and the Mandalorian wonders—from the way his host glares at her relative—if Talia had just lied through her teeth.

Apparently irritated at Thea, the younger woman jumps to her feet. The abrupt movement earns a whine from Vandar, who squirms even more, wanting to be put down. With a sigh, his guardian complies and sets him on the paved floor of the courtyard.

“Thea, are you hungry? I believe I am,” Talia quickly says. She spies the baby shuffling towards her, so she sweeps him up in her arms then turns towards the kitchen where RUBY had disappeared to. “I think it’s time for a snack, huh Vandar? It’s a good thing it’s Solaria’s day off,” she mutters under her breath as the baby holds her necklace’s green pendant as if it is a treasure.

The Mandalorian is about to tell her that the kid had just eaten two hours ago and that he should _not_ be hungry anytime soon. But he holds his tongue because, knowing Thea, she would probably get the wrong idea if he sounds too much like a parent.

“Traxell?” Talia glances over her shoulder. “Can you please excuse us?”

Thankful that this is her way of granting him an escape route from being subjected to more awkwardness from Thea, he gives her a slight bow and says, “Of course, my Lady.”

“Some friends you are,” Thea sulks as she trails behind her cousin. “So formal. And what’s up with this baby?”

“He’s special,” is Talia’s response before entering the kitchen with Vandar.

“Special? You mean he’s just like yo—”

The women disappear into the kitchen, the door cutting off the rest of Thea’s sentence, which he assumes would have finished with “your uncle.” At the peace and quiet, he releases a sigh of relief, and he suddenly feels worn out. It seems that distracting a former queen plagued with a memory sickness has drained him more than he expected.

Wanting to be alone, he goes to the upstairs entertaining room. Stationed above the garden, the room has an open window that overlooks the courtyard. It is a good vantage point that allows him to survey the house’s activities. There is a bench-like couch positioned below the window frame, and he sits there, enjoying the comfort of the plush cushions.

After a few minutes, his mind wanders to Thea who is probably having a heart-to-heart with her cousin in the kitchen, the white tiled and most modern-looking room in the Manor. He cannot help but feel sorry for her. Years of outmaneuvering the Empire, selflessly putting her planet first, and what does she get in return? A memory illness that forces her into early retirement, trapping her in the past and preventing her not only from enjoying the fruits of her labor but also from looking forward to her future. The timing of her sickness is unfair and cruel and twisted. To think the young woman that her mind is telling her that she is, once upon a time, was Thea. He is not sure if he has been blessed with a glimpse of who Thea was before the weight of the crown was placed on her head, or if he has been cursed to always remember how the brave and patient Queen had fallen whenever he looks at her.

Talia seems devoted to her cousin, so why does she still want to leave Onderon? She has this splendid house, people who admire and respect her, a position as a political advisor to the King, the privilege to return to Dxun, a bank account he is certain is filled with credits—practically everything anyone could ever want. Why leave?

 _It’s because she wants to be free,_ his mind whispers to him. However, he doubts she wants to be free from responsibility, not with how attentive and dependable she is when it concerns Vandar. Her attachment to the green-skinned bundle of joy seems to partially dictate her actions. _So, how will she handle it when the time comes for my dept to be paid and we go our separate ways?_ he asks himself, ignoring the twist in his gut.

He shakes his head. He will cross that bridge when he and the kid come to it. It is too early to worry about this. For now, he is going to enjoy being safe on Onderon and spoiled at Dewan Manor.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Half an hour later . . ._

The women’s return from the kitchen pulls the Mandalorian from his thoughts. He observes RUBY as the droid carries a passed out Vandar to his guardian’s room while Talia guides Thea up the stairs leading to the East Wing. Her arm is around her cousin’s waist, her sea-green shawl dangling behind her. He hears her murmuring to her cousin and notices that she is supporting most of Thea’s weight.

Curious, he rises from his seat and peeks around the corner of the entertaining room. Talia does not see him as he surveys Thea’s pale complexion and heavy eyelids. He wonders what happened in the kitchen as he watches the two cousins disappear into one of the guest rooms. Practically hidden by the corner, he remains where he is, keeping an eye on the closed door.

A few minutes later, Talia emerges from the room, alone. Looking worn out herself, she removes her shawl from around her neck and drapes it over a shoulder. Her feet carry her to the stairwell, and the Mandalorian quietly follows her, walking parallel to the railing on his right side. As he approaches her, she sits at the top of the stairs and fiddles with her shawl, her thin fingers playing with its simple material.

“What happened?” he asks, towering behind her. She does not flinch at his sudden presence, making him wonder if she somehow heard him.

“Thea’s exhausted,” she explains. “She said she has a splitting headache.”

Although she does not see him, he nods his head in understanding. He stands there for a moment, waiting, before he decides to join her. He descends the stairway, passes her, and then sits on a few steps below his host. After he leans against the wall, he angles his body so he can have an easier time looking at Talia without getting a crick in his neck.

She is still fidgeting with her sea-green shawl when she quietly says, “Thank you. For being kind to Thea. I’m sure seeing her like that was . . . jarring.”

“Only a little,” he admits. “Especially her flirting.”

At this, Talia’s cheeks heat up, and she buries her face in her shawl. He cannot help the smirk that plays on his lips. An embarrassed Talia is starting to become one of his favorite looks on her. Thanks to Thea, he has had his fair share of that emotion today; it is about time Talia wrestles with a little bit of it, too.

“I’m so sorry you had to be on the receiving end of that,” she answers, her elegant accent muffled by the material covering her face. “Thea was always such a social butterfly.”

“I’ll take it becoming Queen . . . made her act more reserved,” he carefully replies, still watching her.

Talia drops her hands from hiding her previous embarrassment, and her shawl falls into her lap. He watches her gaze drift down as she slides her hands over her dull canary-yellow tunic, trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

“The Crown and the Empire can do that to a person,” she says. She presses the tips of her fingers together, and his eyes sweep over the various rings adorning them. “You saw how happy she was,” Talia continues. “And highs come with its lows. For Thea, her lows were pretty deep when she was queen.”

“But she’d come out from them. The lows, I mean.”

She nods. “Most of the time. She was . . .” Her teeth rake across her lower lip as she chooses her next words. “Who she was before ruling—it helped her to cope with the Clone War, the deaths in our family, the Empire. Thea wanted to bring people’s spirits up. But a little bit after her brother died . . . reality hit her. Hard.” Talia finally looks at him, her gaze daring him to judge her cousin so she can defend her. “Thea never expected to be the next ruler. Ramsis was almost fifteen years older than her. And he showed so much promise,” she whispers more to herself than to him.

After an appropriate amount of time has passed, he asks, “So, he wasn’t married?”

“He was. But he didn’t have any children. After his death, Thea was pushed into politics so fast that she rebelled against it,” she explains. With a sigh she adds, “I tried to get her to prepare herself the best I could before her coronation.”

The confession strikes him as odd, so he remarks, “She has eight years on you, but you talk as if _you’re_ the older cousin.”

“My education on Coruscant,” she slowly reveals, “took the child out of me early. And the Clone War eliminated any chance of me slipping into it again.” She rubs her temple, and he hopes that Thea’s headache is not contagious because he wants Talia to keep on talking. “When I came back, I didn’t realize that I traded one war campaign for another.”

“Different kind of fighting, huh?”

She nods. “Sometimes I’d prefer actual combat. At least I could’ve _physically_ defeated something,” she murmurs, a bitter huff escaping her lips.

“So, why didn’t you join the Rebellion full-time?” he asks, hoping she will reveal more about that part of her life.

“My family needed me. Thea, the Clans, Onderon,” she lists with her fingers. “A restrained peace with the Empire had to be fought for here, so I stayed. When Thea became queen, we both knew it would be only a matter of time before the Empire fell.” Talia props an elbow onto her knee and rests her chin in her hand. “The Imperials ruled mercilessly, punishing people for the smallest things. People were just bound to rebel. So, we had to wait and endure. And prepare the next generation.”

It is his turn to nod at her. His eyes drift to the stairwell’s railing, and he can see the garden’s greenery peeking through the see-through design.

“Sounds like you and Thea have been through a lot,” he comments. “It’s a shame she survived only to get sick.”

“We’ve been fighting since we were children, Ordo. It’s in our blood. Especially mine,” she murmurs, and her voice sounds sad and full of regret. When he glances at her, he sees her drop her hand and straighten her back before adding, “Thea and I? We’re warriors, not survivors. And she’s just going to have to fight through her illness.”

“ _Can_ it be fought?” he queries.

She shrugs, her posture relaxing again. “Maybe. It’s a strange condition. We don’t know how it came into our family. Our doctors are still trying to figure it out. They say it’s complicated.” Her eyes drift to his visor. “If I’m being honest, I’m just thankful my father’s blood runs deep in my veins.”

For some reason, he feels the same way. He does not even want to imagine Talia like Thea, wandering around, stuck in the past, behaving like a child. The thought gives him a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Shoving away this dismal image, he changes the subject by asking, “How old was Thea right now? In her mind?”

She takes time to mull over his question, her gaze lifting to the sandstone ceiling. “I’m guessing around twenty-one,” she answers, confirming his suspicions. A small smile plays on her lips. “You should’ve heard Thea in the kitchen. She was venting about how her father had talked to her about a possible betrothal between her and—”

“Kavan,” he supplies, which earns him a bewildered look from her.

“She mentioned it?” Talia asks. Her body tenses, and he can spy a hint of pink coloring her tanned cheeks again.

“She did.”

When he does not elaborate, she relaxes. “I had to stop from smiling during her rant,” she reveals with an amused hum. “You see, Kavan returned to Dxun for two years, and when he came back, Thea was smitten silly.” Talia chuckles at the memory, and he can only imagine a twenty-three-year-old Thea with wide eyes and jaw dropped at reuniting with her betrothed. “She fell in love with him on the spot, though it took some time for him. But he’s devoted to her.”

Since the conversation has turned ever so slightly to Kavan, the Mandalorian takes the opportunity to find out more about his host’s strained relationship with her second cousin’s husband.

“How come you two don’t get along?”

Talia eyes him skeptically. “What have the gossips told you?”

Believing there is no harm in revealing what little he knows, he replies, “Some say he didn’t think you should have represented the Clans living on Onderon because you were disgraced.”

She hums at this, nodding. “Well, it looks like the gossips are almost right. That’s part of the reason.”

“What’s the rest?”

“He’s jealous of how close Thea and I have been. Always has been,” she explains, fiddling with her necklace.

Close enough to see that specific piece of jewelry better, he notices that the gold necklace’s pendant is a green crystal. Cut in smooth angles, the oval-looking gem is tightly secured with a gold casing, and it sparkles—almost glows—with an energy that seems to radiate serenity.

“Early in their marriage,” Talia continues, pulling him back to their conversation, “Thea would talk to me about things before first going to Kavan.”

“So, he saw you as a wedge,” he states more than asks.

“And I was. Until I told Thea what she was doing. But she wasn’t doing it on purpose,” Talia defends. “Going to me first was just a habit she had to break.”

“And now?”

“Now,” she sighs, still playing with her pendant. “It’s almost the same, give or take. You see, when Thea has her . . . episodes, a good portion of the time, she’s a teenager. Or more specifically,” she explains, “she’s unmarried. She goes looking for me and shies away from Kavan. It doesn’t help that I’m pretty much the only one who can calm her down when she’s afraid or confused. I’m the person she clings to.”

“And not her husband,” he fills in, finally understanding Kavan’s dislike of his host. “He feels like he’s being replaced.”

“I know it sounds petty of him,” Talia says. “But I can’t blame him. I’m sure I’d feel the same if I was married.”

Her last sentence makes his ears perk up. This just may be the opportunity he has been waiting for to bring up the topic of those Mandalorian lovers that he has been hearing about.

“Why aren’t you? Married, that is,” he clarifies. When she quirks a dark eyebrow at him, he elaborates. “It’s just . . . Thea’s said you’ve fought it over the years. Something about your Coruscant upbringing.”

“What else did she say?” she asks, suspicion coloring her tone. He notes that she tightly closes her hand around her green gemstone.

He shrugs. “That’s it.”

Still, she looks at him with her guard up, her eyes sweeping across his expressionless helmet. Whatever she is searching for, she must have found it because she tells him, “No one they recommended appealed to me. Plus, I thought I’d be more useful—more available—at Court if I was unattached.”

“Well, that’s not what the gossips say,” he flatly answers.

“Oh really?” She smirks at him while releasing her pendant. “Let me guess: Lady Talia,” she dramatizes, sweeping a hand in front of her as if she is reading a HoloNet article, “the royal family’s very own disgraced cousin: a paramour, famously known for bedding Mandalorian men. Especially the ones she recruits for the government.”

“Yeah,” he answers in a clipped tone. “In so many words.”

“And such is one of my reputations,” Talia says, dropping her hand. She fiddles with one of the many buttons sewn onto her tunic and quietly admits, “It isn’t true. If you’re wondering.”

“I’m not,” he lies, trying to sound casual and indifferent. “But since they’re not true, why let the rumors spread?”

Talia stops fingering her buttons and stares straight ahead. In a neutral voice she answers, “They ruined any chance of Onderonian nobles or influential people from wanting to marry me.”

Her reply startles him, and he blinks at her. “Kind of extreme if you ask me.”

“It worked,” she states with a shrug.

“How about marrying you off to a Mandalorian?” he asks. “We don’t care about stuff like that.”

“Thea’s marriage to Kavan—plus me being half—was enough of a Mandalorian alliance for the Court,” she explains, removing her slippers. “They wanted to strengthen their Onderonian ties by marrying me off to one of their nobles. And I didn’t want that.”

“So, the Mandos you recruited for the government,” he figures aloud, “was a part of yours and Thea’s plan to prepare the next generation.” When she nods in confirmation, he continues. “And you mentored all of them?”

“Most of them,” she corrects. “I groomed them—Onderonians, too—to be loyal to the throne and to the planet.”

“And you spending a lot of time with the recruits kick-started the rumors,” he states.

“It did.”

He nods, pleased that he finally got to the bottom of this colorful reputation of hers. Though distasteful to Onderonians—and possibly to her own cousin—Talia had ignored the implications of the “scandalous” social status following her around like a raincloud. Instead, she continued to serve the government and her people. Either she must have developed thick skin or embraced the Mandalorian mentality in order to keep on going. Or maybe she did both. After all, she seems so well-balanced in temperament, and in her personality, that he is certain she has been able to juggle them around.

In an instant, his mind recalls the name ‘Surjay’ and Talia’s reactions when her cousin mentioned him. Taking a gamble that his host is still in a sharing mood, he remarks, “Thea talked about someone called Surjay. Who’s that?”

Like half an hour ago, Talia flinches. It is not as obvious as before, but he was looking for it. He can see her shoulders tense, and she presses her lips together. Clearing her throat, she sends him a forced yet apologetic smile before quietly saying, “Perhaps another time, Ordo.”

Gracefully, she retrieves her slippers, stands up, and descends the stairs like a ghost, soundless and even sad. He does not call her back but simply watches her retreat into her study where she had sent R6 a while ago.

 _Hmm, interesting,_ he muses to himself when he hears the study’s door swoosh close. _Touchy subject. I guess this guy was someone really close to her._ And he knows his friend’s reactions and body movements well enough to figure out that Surjay must be dead. _Poor Talia. Fate hasn’t been kind to her either._

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_One hour later . . ._

With his bedroom door open, voices float from the courtyard and reach his ears. He is currently sitting on a couch, cleaning his blaster pistol. Vandar is sleeping next to him with his Nexu pelt spread over his tiny body. The white and black fur moves up and down with each breath the baby takes.

Hearing the soft sounds beyond his quarters prompts the Mandalorian to stop with his task. He has a feeling Thea is awake already, and he is curious if she is still trapped in her twenty-one-year-old self. So, he sets aside his disassembled weapon and rises from his seat.

In less than a minute he is descending the stairs of the West Wing, his eyes spotting Talia and Thea. The cousins are standing in front of the entryway, talking with one another. The former queen has her back to him, and he sees that her crimson shawl is wrapped around her head as if she is prepared to leave.

Talia notices him and calls out with a smile. “Dan, you’re here.”

The change in names startles him, and he wonders why she did that. However, the moment Thea turns around, he understands. Gone is the younger version of the woman he had met earlier today. Her hazel eyes are somber with age, and he is startled by the wrinkles around her cheeks. With her chin held high like a queen, she surveys him in a way that reminds him of an experienced captain inspecting one of her soldiers. She presses her crimson lips together in a firm yet pleasant line, an expression that he prefers than the flirtatious smiles she had sent him. And judging from the lack of embarrassing blushes or guilty eyes, he suspects Thea must have no memory of what happened over an hour ago.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Talia presents him to her regal cousin. “Thea, allow me to introduce my houseguest: Dan Traxell.”

He gives the former queen a slight bow, and she acknowledges him with a dignified nod. “An honor, your Majesty,” he says.

“The honor is mine,” Thea replies, her Onderonian voice calm and collected. “Talia has told me about your adventures on Cholganna. I’m pleased you have graced her with a visit. She was looking forward to it.”

The news surprises him, and he steals a glance at his host. Talia drops her gaze, looking almost shy. Of all people to tell about Cholganna, Thea would be the last person he would expect Talia to choose as a confidant. Why tell a cousin with memory problems who can possibly spit out secrets at the most random of times and not Ryk’ken, her supposedly best friend?

Deciding to trust Talia’s judgment, since she knows her cousin better, he nods at Thea. She gives him an approving smile but still remains composed and responsible-looking. It almost makes him sad to both see and know that such a bubbly woman in her youth had been “sacrificed” when she became the Queen of Onderon during the terrorizing rule of the Empire. Her fair complexion makes her look emotionally drained, as if the past two decades have sucked the life out of her. He then remembers what Talia had said of them, that their years of fighting the Imperials had made them warriors. Well, Thea reminds him of a hardened yet worn out warrior longing for peace. Instead of rejuvenating her strength during the New Republic, she is forced to fight through another war. This time, with her own mind.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for a meal, Thea?” Talia asks, stepping next to her, bringing the Mandalorian back to the present.

“Thank you, dear, but I can’t.” Smiling, she reaches over and places a hand on her cousin’s arm. “I need to return to the Temple. I’ve been gone too long. I don’t want Kavan to worry about me.” Thea glances at him. “It was lovely meeting you after so long, Dan. I hope you choose to stay in Iziz for a while.”

“That’s the plan, your Highness,” he replies with another small bow.

With a respectful nod, he retreats back up the stairs, giving the women time alone to exchange affectionate farewells. About halfway up, he hears them murmuring to each other, and he cannot stop himself from catching a few phrases.

“. . . and have you told him?” Thea asks.

“No. I can’t seem to,” his host admits, sounding conflicted.

“You should,” comes the reply. “Before it’s too late. You trust him, right? So, trust him with this.”

The Mandalorian is at the top of the stairs and disappears around the corner. But once he is out of sight, he stands in the West Wing’s hallway and continues to eavesdrop.

“He won’t understand,” he hears Talia argue.

“Maybe not at first. But he might, if you give him time.”

Feeling guilty for listening in on a private conversation, he tears himself away and returns to his room. He wonders who the “he” is that the cousins are talking about, but he assumes it must be Ryk’ken. Perhaps Thea is trying to convince Talia to open up to her best friend about Cholganna. Or they just may be discussing something else entirely, like a family matter.

 _Which is why snooping doesn’t get you answers,_ his brain reprimands him as he sits down on the couch in his suite, intent on cleaning his pistol again. _Just mind your own business, Mando._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know more about Thea and a brief review of her reign as Queen of Onderon, check out Chapter 9 of "Bleeding Beskar" (the first third of it).


	6. Nightly Activities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the delay, but this chapter is a big one!

Chapter VI: Nightly Activities

“Trax! Is that really you?” Nazim calls out to him the moment he walks into Boma’s Brews. “Get yourself over here, _ner burc’ya_ *!”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

The bar owner is behind the counter, filling up a patron’s glass. His grey-streaked black hair is still tied up in a tight knot at the back of his neck. The Mandalorian sees that Nazim is working alone tonight, and there is no sign of his red-headed wife, Mila. In fact, the cantina is pretty much empty right now. There are no Biths playing music in the corner on this late night; instead, soft music is coming from somewhere else, probably a sound system. Stationed next to the door is Lenni, the Aqualish bouncer. The arachnid-looking alien has his beefy arms crossed, fighting sleep.

Looking around, the Mandalorian notices that about half a dozen people are here, and only one of them is sitting at the counter. _Talia was right,_ he muses to himself as he strides over to Nazim. _Hardly anyone would be here on this night._

He settles himself on the farthest side of the bar, making sure he can see the door and keep an eye on the other patrons. Nazim is called over by an Ithorian who orders a fancy, complicated drink.

 _“Where are you off to? It’s getting late,”_ he remembers Talia asking him. She had caught him sneaking towards the front door of the Manor.

 _“I’m going to see a friend,”_ he told her. He did not see the point in lying to her. _“He owns a bar.”_

_“Really? Which one?”_

_“Boma’s Brews.”_

Her dark eyes had lit up at the name. _“Oh, Nazim! Yes, I know him.”_

The news had startled him, and he had thought to himself, _‘Well, Nazim forgot to mention_ that _important detail.’_

He watches the man in question make his rounds, checking on his patrons and chatting with the ones still sober enough to answer his questions. But from the way Nazim keeps glancing his way, the Mandalorian knows the owner is impatient to get back to him.

 _“Figured he would have gloated about knowing you,”_ he had told Talia about an hour ago.

 _“He doesn’t. Know me, that is,”_ she clarified. “ _Not really. I’ve been to his cantina to meet contacts and sniff out information. Incognito of course.”_ She had then looked at him with squinted eyes before asking, _“Nazim’s your source of information, isn’t he, Ordo?”_

Instead of admitting it, he simply said, _“I’ll take it his gossiping reputation precedes him.”_

 _“It does,”_ she chuckled. _“He’s been helpful on more than one occasion.”_

“Sorry about the wait,” Nazim greets him. He slams a friendly hand on his shoulder then darts behind his counter again. As he fixes a drink for the Ithorian, he says, “Good to see you, Trax.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” the Mandalorian replies with a smirk.

“Where’ve you been? Haven’t seen you since the festival. Didn’t think you stuck around,” he chats away while he stirs a green liquid into a glass full of some kind of purple fruit. “How’ve you been?”

“Pretty good. I’m settling here for a while.”

“Not permanently, huh? Too bad. Hey, were you able to meet up with your friend?”

“Yeah.”

“You should’ve brought them!” the other man scolds him with a smile.

 _Oh, I did,_ the Mandalorian smirks behind his helmet.

And at that moment, Talia walks through the door as if they had rehearsed this, but only he is aware of who she is. Knowing that she could be recognized, she had put on a black veil that covers half of her face. Although the material is see-through, people will have to rudely stare at her in order for them to figure out her true identity.

After he told her where he was going, she had insisted on joining him. At first, he argued that they could not leave Vandar alone, yet she defeated his excuse, saying that he was in a deep sleep and that her handmaiden, Gia, could watch over the baby. He relented, figuring she could use a break from being Vandar’s unofficial nanny. But he practically ordered her to give him a wide berth so he could speak to Nazim alone. Talia agreed and had given him a ten-minute head start for the cantina. However, she has arrived a little earlier than he had calculated. She must have taken a shortcut he did not know about, and he reminds himself to ask her about that later.

Talia’s entrance catches the bartender’s eye. He excuses himself, and on his way over to her, he delivers the Ithorian’s drink. Like a good owner of the cantina, Nazim greets Talia, asking what he can do for her. She says something, and the Mandalorian is too far away to catch her order. Instead, he watches Nazim nod before scurrying behind the counter again.

“Can I get _you_ anything, Trax?” he asks, preparing Talia’s drink. “Or are ya here for information?” He fills up a tall, thin glass with pebble-sized fruits that are as red as rubies. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes, which makes the Mandalorian smile. He notices that Talia sits down at the bar diagonally across from him.

“You guessed it,” he answers and is amused when Nazim leans in closer. “What can you tell me about Ryk’ken?” he asks. His voice is quiet, and he hopes the cantina music flowing from the ceiling’s speakers will drown out his question. He does not want Talia to listen in.

“The Viceroy?” Nazim whispers. “Why are you interested in him?”

“He’s a . . . friend of a friend,” he says, his eyes veering to Talia. She has struck up a conversation with a Qarren, the other person sitting at the counter.

Nazim pours a clear liquid, chilled and carbonated, into Talia’s glass. It smells sweet and fruity to the Mandalorian. When the spirits collide with the ruby berries, diamond bubbles form in an instant. Some of the bubbles float to the top while others stick to the fruit.

“Wow, Trax. You sure do know people. The higher-ups, too,” Nazim grins as he mixes the contents of the drink with a glass stirring rod. The edible rubies swirl in the clear alcohol, their pigment coloring the spirits a soft pink.

“Mostly one,” the Mandalorian admits. “But Ryk’ken didn’t impress me much. I just want to know more about him.”

Before he can receive more information, the bar owner delivers Talia’s drink to her, along with a straw. She nods at him in appreciation and takes a sip. He hears her say something, and it must have been a huge compliment because Nazim returns to him with a victorious smile on his face.

Over the next twenty minutes, the bartender fills the Mandalorian in on what he knows about Viceroy Ryk’ken. Though Nazim is still a valuable source of intelligence, what he shares is already known to the Mandalorian. Of course, Nazim colors his information with his own opinion, and it seems he admires the new Clan Leader of Onderon.

“My friend living here,” the bounty hunter says after a few moments of silence. “They want to go to Dxun for a visit. What’s the moon like?”

Nazim shrugs as he dries a clean tankard. “Rainy. Damp. Dangerous.”

Out of the corner of his eye, the Mandalorian notices that Talia is now sandwiched between the Qarren patron and a helmetless Mando. But she seems quite comfortable chatting with them as she takes short sips of her half-empty drink. The Qarren looks sleepy as he finishes his orange liquor while the Mando appears to be more interested in charming Talia. He tries to smooth out his auburn, curly hair, as if that will impress her.

 _Yeah, good luck,_ the bounty hunter smirks to himself.

“I know I said ‘dangerous,’” Nazim continues chatting on. “But it’s a good kind of dangerous, if you’re into hunting down predators for sport. Mandos are the ones who go there mostly. Is your friend a Mando?”

“Half.”

He sees the Qarren loudly slap some credits onto the red countertop, nod at his conversation companions, and leave the cantina with heavy steps. Talia, now alone with the auburn Mando, simply finishes her drink. He is unsure if she sees the Mando sit up straighter and hide a pleased smile at having her all to himself.

“Well,” Nazim adds, pulling the Mandalorian’s attention back, “I’ll take it your friend’s lived here all their life, so they know better than to go during this month.”

“Why?”

“It’s the wettest season of the year for Dxun,” the bar owner explains. “Even some of the Mandos living there migrate here to wait out the wettest part. But they mostly go to Kira City. That’s the breadbasket of Onderon,” he informs him.

 _So, that’s why Talia hasn’t gone to that Demon Moon yet,_ he thinks to himself, his eyes landing on her again as she shifts an inch away from her admirer. _Hmm. Yep, not going there. Even if she begs me. Too much like Cholganna._

At the moment, Nazim attends to another patron. It gives the Mandalorian enough time to watch Talia. He witnesses the Mando lean closer to her, and instead of pushing the man away, she allows him to intrude upon her personal space, an action he finds odd. She winks at the Mando, which encourages him to place a few fingers under her chin. With a gentleness that even the bounty hunter can see, the Mando guides Talia’s face closer to his.

Intrigued by the game that she is playing, the bounty hunter sits back and waits for her deal with the other man’s forward gesture. As a response, Talia pulls the Mando’s hand away then whispers something in his ear. Her admirer shakes his head, looking quite disappointed. He nods at her and stands up. Then, the Mando takes her hand and kisses it before slapping on his helmet and walking out the cantina. Talia does not even spare the man another glance, and the bounty hunter wonders what she said to him.

“Has that mysterious beauty over there caught your eye?” he hears Nazim whisper in his ear.

He turns to his left and finds the bartender retreating behind his counter again. A smirk is on his lips.

“No.”

“The other guy left,” Nazim whispers conspiratorially. “Go introduce yourself to her, Trax.”

The Mandalorian wants to shake his head. Yesterday was Thea’s visit. He already had a stomach-full of her matchmaking, and he is not in the mood for another attempt, this time by Nazim.

“I’m not here for that,” he explains.

“Then why are you staring at her?”

Knowing the question was meant to provoke him, the Mandalorian lies, “I was looking past her. At that shifty-eyed Devaronian.”

At this, Nazim glances over his shoulder. “Yeah, that’s Rune. I’m not a fan of him either.” He turns back to him. “But what can I say? He’s a paying customer.”

Talia, with her sweet drink in hand, chooses that exact moment to join them, and he wants to groan. “Care for some company?” she asks, her accent sounding too innocent.

“He needs it,” Nazim blurts out with a laugh.

“No, I don’t!”

“Yeah, you do.”

“I can leave,” Talia offers, pretending to walk away.

“No!” the bartender almost shouts. He clears his throat before calmly adding, “Let me wipe that part of the bar for you, Miss. Here you go.” He dries the red countertop with a towel. “Nice and clean. Hey, Trax, don’t scare away my customers.” With a wink, Nazim leaves them alone and checks up on Lenni, his bouncer.

“He seems to really like you,” Talia notes aloud, taking a seat beside him.

“Maybe too much,” he mutters under his breath.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” she remarks as she delicately sips her drink through her straw. “Liking someone too much, I mean.”

He tilts his head at her. “Speaking from experience?”

“Yes.” Talia pins him with a pointed look, her dark eyes shining. “And you feel the same.”

For some unexplained reason, his mouth goes dry. Wishing that he is alone so he can have a drink himself, he asks, “About . . .?”

“Vandar.”

 _Well, she got me there,_ he inwardly chuckles.

He is thankful that Nazim stops teasing him about Talia for the rest of the evening. In the end, he leaves Boma’s Brews before she does, but she manages to beat him to the Manor. When he asks her how that was possible, she gives him a playful wink and says, “My city, remember?”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_A week later . . ._

A banging on his bedroom door startles him awake from a deep slumber. Instinctively, he reaches for his pistol which is hidden away underneath his thick pillow. His calloused fingers brush against the handle as he sits up, the cool sheets twisting around his legs.

“Ordo!” he hears Talia’s muffled voice call out to him. There is no fear or alarm in her accent, only excitement and impatience. “Ordo! Come downstairs! You need to see Vandar do something!”

“Okay,” he gruffly snaps at her, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He glances at the time, and his foggy brain realizes that it is two hours before dawn. “This better be good,” he grumbles as he yanks his sheets off him.

His bare feet sink into the soft carpet, and all he wants to do is disappear in his bed’s plush embrace. With a yawn and a stretch, he turns to the nightstand and reaches for his helmet. The cold Beskar sends a shock through his fingers, zapping him wide awake. He slips on his head gear then re-adjusts the pair of loose trousers he had been sleeping in; though comfortable, they were settled too low on his hips for his liking.

As quickly as he can, he yanks on his boots and shoves his arms through the sleeves of a tunic he keeps nearby while he sleeps. The shirt is open, requiring a simple set of ties to cover up his exposed chest. In a few seconds, he fastens the ties to his side with a secure knot. His tunic’s fabric is thin with a V-neck collar in the front, and not wanting to go downstairs feeling this vulnerable, he retrieves his grey cloak.

While walking out the door of his suite, he wraps the rough fabric around his shoulders. His fingers are busy tying a loose knot to secure his cloak as his feet lead him down the dim hallway towards the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Once he reaches the railing, he grips it tightly, his rough hands digging into the stone barrier. Above him, Dxun glows emerald and paints the dark morning in a greenish hue.

Quick movement catches his eyes, and he zeroes in his focus. It is Talia, waving at him, her tanned face shadowed in an olive-tone. Her long hair is down and tangled from sleep, and her flower-patterned nightgown looks wrinkled. The sleepwear reaches below her knees, and he sees that she is barefoot. She has also thrown on a cloak—or in her case, a shawl—and has it wrapped around her in a style similar to his. An excited grin is on her lips, and even from this distance he notices how brightly her eyes are shining.

“Look!” she loudly whispers, pointing below him.

Still annoyed for being dragged out of bed, he gives a disapproving hum before complying. He leans forward, craning his neck down in order for him to get a better view. Beneath him, next to one of the pillars supporting the West Wing, is Vandar and a platter of small candles. He counts ten of them and then notices that his ward has his little, three-fingered hand extended in front of him.

Vandar’s brown eyes reflect the candles’ flames, but his gaze is filled with concentration as he stares at them. The waxy items are arranged in a circle with one lone candle sitting in the middle. However, the flames are not on the wicks like they should be; instead, they are hovering over the candles like fiery topaz gemstones, their pear-shaped bodies floating in the air. With wide eyes, the Mandalorian leans forward even more, his brain not quite believing what he sees before him.

He is so mesmerized by this unbelievable display that he barely hears Talia whisper to the baby, “Show him what you did a minute ago, Vandar.” And soon, the gifted alien has his mind move the flames, making them dance like excited gemstones. The Mandalorian, wanting to get a better and closer look, quickly but quietly heads for the stairs. His gaze is fixed on Vandar as the baby mentally orders the pear-shaped fires to rise higher in the air; then, they begin to revolve around a single flame in long ovals, like electrons and protons orbiting a nucleus.

When the Mandalorian is about three yards away from his charge, he suddenly feels a hand on his bicep, stopping him. Not needing to look to know it is Talia, he ignores her and takes another step forward.

“Wait,” she whispers. She is standing so close to him that he can feel a reassuring warmth radiating from her body, mingling with his own.

In that moment, Vandar lifts up his other hand and raises them both above his wrinkly head. The flames unexpectedly join together, creating a fireball the size of his green body. It rises higher into the air, almost at eye-level to his viewers. For at least one, awe-inspiring minute, the fireball spins and crackles with life; its yellow and orange light chases away the emerald hues from the Demon Moon.

Then, Vandar begins to slowly lower his hands. In response, the fireball drops and hovers directly over the platter of smokey candles. The Mandalorian can feel Talia’s grip on his bicep grow tighter, and he hears her hold her breath in anticipation. His stomach flips while he eagerly waits for Vandar’s next move. He has an urge to lay a hand on top of Talia’s, but he pushes it away when the fireball morphs into a distorted, jagged shape. Vandar closes his eyes, his outstretched hands shaking, and after a few seconds, the fire separates into smaller flames.

As the Mandalorian counts ten individual fires, all small and shaped like fiery gems, his ward mentally returns each flame back to a candle. Vandar snaps his brown eyes open. He furrows his wrinkly brow, staring at the ten, lit candles. With a hard blink, the flames disintegrate, leaving behind waxy candles and wisps of silver smoke rising into the green-colored atmosphere.

The only thing his guardian can do is stare. Complete awe washes over him, and he hardly registers Talia letting go of his arm. His brain is too baffled, too impressed, to do anything other than replay what he had just witnessed.

“Well done, Vandar,” he hears Talia say, her elegant accent coated with emotion. He glances at her and finds her beaming at the child with pride shining in her dark eyes.

Vandar giggles before falling back on his rear end. As he rubs his sleepy eyes, Talia dashes towards him and bends down to pick him up. Her gold necklace with its emerald pendant escapes the confines of her shawl and dangles freely. When she scoops the baby in her arms, Vandar grabs the pendant and holds it in his hand. At this, Talia kisses his forehead and nuzzles him affectionately. The baby gives her a dazed smile as he fights sleep.

“How—how’d he do that?” the Mandalorian asks, his voice sounding more gravelly than normal.

“Wasn’t he amazing?” she praises the little one. The fond smile she bestows on Vandar is filled with adoration and delight.

The half-Onderonian waltzes past him and almost skips across the courtyard. Dxun’s greenish illumination guides her way as she heads towards the East Wing’s stairs. Although the Mandalorian agrees she needs to take the baby to bed as soon as possible, he feels a little irked that she did not answer him. So, he stubbornly trails after her, his boots much louder on the stone floor than her bare feet.

“Yeah, he was,” he admits while ascending the staircase. “But what were you doing getting him up this early? Do you even know what time it is?”

“Shh!” she hisses at him, turning around so she can send him a glare. He notices the kid is fast asleep in her arms. “Lower your voice, or you’ll wake him up,” she harshly whispers at him before continuing up the stairs.

“Talia Kex!” he whisper-shouts.

“Fine!” She spins around again, annoyance flashing across her face. “ _He_ woke _me_ up if you must know,” she snaps then climbs up the steps two at a time.

“What? Why?” he demands, trailing behind her.

His questions fall on deaf ears as his host strides down the semi-dark hallway on their right—her destination is obviously her room. But he follows her nonetheless. When she disappears into her personal quarters, the door slides closed, so he hovers outside, crossing his arms in front of him. He does not invade the privacy of her room, just like she does not do so with his. However, he _will_ wait here all night if he has to.

After a minute, Talia comes back out and flips a switch to close the door behind her. Though the hall is barely lit up with soft yellow lights near the floor, he can spy dark circles under her eyes when she faces him.

“Vandar woke up for no reason,” she explains, her voice quiet. “I didn’t hear him shuffling around my room at first, but one of my data-pads slammed into the wall. And then he was giggling as if it was a game.”

“So, he was bored and just decided to mess around?”

“Yes.”

“Why? He hasn’t done that before.”

“It’s because he hasn’t disciplined his gift.”

“Disciplined? He’s a _baby_ ,” he flatly states. “He doesn’t even know the meaning of the word.”

Talia gives him an amused smile. “He’s smarter than you’re giving him credit for, Ordo.”

Ignoring that verbal jab, he nods at her room. “Is he okay? Whenever he uses his gift, he’s exhausted and passes out.”

“I’ve noticed that, too,” she softly replies, her gaze dropping to her hands. She begins fiddling with the front end of her shawl.

“Do you know why that happens?” he asks.

“No,” she sighs then looks back at him. “I just figured doing too much of it drains him.”

“Did it happen to your uncle?” he presses her. It then hits him that he does not even know the other man’s name. Or which side of her family he had come from, the Dewans or the Kexes. Maybe he was a great uncle or an older cousin twice removed.

“No,” she repeats. Her eyes have that faraway look about them, something he has not seen lately. “At least, not that I’m aware of.”

“Should we let him keep doing that? Using his gift?” he clarifies as he drops his hands to his sides. “If that’s what happens to him when he uses it, then I don’t want—”

“I think he just needs to keep doing it, Ordo,” she interrupts, her gaze clear though tired. “Starting with small ‘doses’ and increasing it as time goes by and as he gets better at wielding his gift.”

Her description sounds too medical and scientific for his liking, and in an instant, his brain flashes before him the memory of finding the baby in a lab back on Nevarro.

“Sounds like you’re drugging him, Kex,” he mutters under his breath.

Talia shrugs her shoulders and lets out a sigh. “Well, that’s the best way I can explain it to you. I don’t know everything.”

“It’s just,” he begins, not wanting to offend her. “It looks like you’re experimenting with him.”

The half-smile she gives him is sad and exhausted. “To be honest, I kinda am,” she admits. “This is new territory for me. Just like it is for you.”

He hums at this, still baffled by how a baby with such . . . The word _gift_ seems inappropriate now. Vandar had taken command of fire, not something solid like the Mudhorn or the children’s blocks he has been playing with lately. His mind was able to move something as dangerous as a flame, an act that speaks of . . . power. Yes, that word fits the ability better. Why would Fate toss a baby with this powerful skill into his lap? Though he is not one to shy away from a challenge, even he has to admit to himself that he is out of his depth. But at least he has Talia with him.

A quiet yawn breaks into his thoughts, and he glances at his host. Despite the fact that she had covered her display of exhaustion with a hand, he notices that her eyes look watery.

“I think I’m going to try to get some sleep,” she softly informs him. “I’ll see you in a few hours, okay?”

He nods and watches her slip into her room. Once the door hisses closed, he returns to his quarters. The Dxun moon, always watching, looms over the Manor like a parent, its green light scolding him to go back to sleep just as his two companions have.

By the time he enters his room, he doubts he will be able to go back to sleep because his mind is fully awake, zooming thoughts as fast as a speeder. He realizes that Talia did not go into detail about what she had showed him or about what Vandar had done. She was so excited, so proud of the little one that he is now surprised she did not chat on and on about what inspired her to light up the candles. Nor did she reveal what she said to encourage Vandar to control the flames with his mind or how he was able to do it. Instead, she praised the baby and put him to bed, a routine that she has been doing after Vandar has tired himself out.

Now that he thinks about it, Talia has not elaborated on her time spent with the little womp rat. For the past two weeks, it seems that the Mandalorian has always been catching the last few minutes of Talia’s deep bonding sessions with Vandar. He does not even know what she says to him to show off his ability. But then, he has been enjoying his “freedom,” leaving the baby in their host’s care, to stick around and watch them interact. He trusts her with Vandar, and he is relieved there is at least _someone_ who is comfortable with this telekinetic gift. He guesses her uncle is to thank for that.

When the Mandalorian had mentioned the other man a few minutes ago, Talia gave him short answers. Either she had learned that from himself, or she simply did not want to talk about her uncle. Yet here _he_ is, trying to understand how special Vandar is, and Talia did not even attempt to make things clear by saying “my uncle once did this” or “he showed me that” or “he told me this.” He figured she would open up more about him the longer they stayed on Onderon, but she has not until this morning—and that was _not_ much.

 _I’ll ask about him later,_ he decides as he prepares for an early morning shower. _I need a better idea of what to expect from the kid when he gets bigger. Well, older._

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_A few days later . . ._

It is late evening as the Mandalorian, Talia, and Vandar congregate in the lounge of a vacant guest room that just so happens to be across the hall from his quarters.

He is sitting on a couch, slouching with a leg crossed over his knee. The day had been a lazy one which mostly consisted of following Vandar on the covered rooftop. The green infant had shuffled along the walkway in rectangular circles so many times that his guardian had lost count. Every once in a while, Vandar whined at him, wanting to be picked up so he could see over the railing and gaze at Iziz’s cityscape stretching in all directions.

A giggle from his ward gets his attention, and the Mandalorian finds Vandar, who is sitting on the rug-covered floor, lifting a wooden block with his mind. The toy, etched with elegant groves, floats in the air before settling on top of a small tower made of three other blocks.

“Good job,” Talia praises the kid. She is also sitting on the floor, right next to him, with her feet tucked underneath her in a ladylike manner. A block is in her hand, and she leans closer to Vandar’s tower, her long braided hair hanging over her shoulder. Delicately, she adds the children’s toy atop the wooden structure. It sways just a little but stills after a moment, and Vandar giggles again, his brown eyes shining with pleasure.

“Now, it’s your turn,” their host says, nodding at the baby.

For the past hour the two of them have been playing this game. Vandar and Talia take turns adding blocks to their latest architectural creation. While she builds with her hands, the pointy-eared alien uses his gift to mentally move the toys. From his spot on the couch, the Mandalorian watches them, amused that Talia has not grown tired of the monotonous game. Though, he is pleased that Vandar has shown zero signs of exhaustion during this simple exercise of his gift. The baby beams as Talia chats with him, saying “Very smooth lifting” or “How about that one?” or “You’re doing so well.”

Since the fireball scene in the courtyard a few nights ago, the Mandalorian has been subtly trying to get more information from his host about her uncle. Yet Talia has been tight-lipped about him. All that he has learned so far is her uncle’s name: Zebedee. Or “Uncle Zeb” as she used to call him. Though it is not much, he is certain she will open up more about him eventually. He just needs to be patient.

The door to the guest room swooshes open, and RUBY walks in.

“Mistress Talia,” the red-plated droid softly greets her, “may I interrupt for a moment?”

“Of course, RUBY,” she says over her shoulder, her eyes never leaving Vandar. “What is it?”

“Lord Qasim Nader* has arrived and asks for a private audience with you.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: Ka-zeem NAH-dair)_

At this, Talia sits up straighter. The block she has been holding almost drops out of her hand, but she recovers her grip on it. Her dark eyes narrow in suspicion. The Mandalorian, rising from his seat on the couch, notices that the skin tightly stretched over her knuckles looks a few shades paler. He has yet to meet Nader, but reading about him from the _Crest_ ’s files has already made him prejudice against Onderon’s Minister of Trade.

“He’s here?” he finds himself demanding of RUBY. “At this time? Why?”

“He did not declare his purpose,” the droid replies in its whispering voice. “He only stated his intention to see Lady Talia.”

The Mandalorian drops his eyes to the woman sitting on the floor. She is holding the block in her hands, her bracelets and rings twinkling at him. With a sigh, she gives Vandar the toy.

“Show him into the upper entertaining room, RUBY,” she instructs, her elegant accent sounding very host-like. “Offer him some refreshment and then return to me when he is settled.”

“Yes, my Lady,” RUBY says, bowing to her despite the fact that she has her back to it. As quiet as its mechanical voice, the droid-butler exits the room.

“Is Nader here to give you trouble?” the Mandalorian asks. He remembers how Bezden Cass kept flashing the Minister’s name around on Cholganna, as if it was a magic word that opened doors and granted power. Now that he thinks about it, he has never asked his host what had happened to Cass.

Talia rises to her feet, her movements more tense than graceful. “I’m not sure, though I wouldn’t put it past him. But . . . he’s been acting . . . differently around me since I came back.”

The way she said this, her voice sounding so uncertain, alarmed him. His host has good instincts and can read people very well. He wonders what Nader said or did to make her doubt her assessment of him. From what he learned on Cholganna, the two of them are rivals, meaning a visit this late in the evening is not only unexpected but also unwelcomed. There are a handful of reasons why Nader would risk showing his face at Talia’s house.

“So, he must want something,” he offers his suspicion.

“Apparently.” She folds her hands in front of her. “And coming at this time means he didn’t want to be seen.”

“Trouble then,” he states, laying a gloved hand on his holstered pistol. He then remembers something else about Nader. “He’s the guy who set you up for spice, right?”

Her eyes return to watching Vandar, who decides to knock over his tower of six blocks with a green hand. He giggles.

“ _I_ still hold him responsible,” Talia answers him after the noise of the falling blocks subsides. “But he claims he had nothing to do with it.”

As the Mandalorian scoffs at this, she walks over to the comms panel near the door. She presses a button and speaks into it: “Gia, are you there?”

 _“Yes, my Lady,”_ answers her handmaiden.

“Please go to the library and bring me my shawl,” Talia kindly instructs. “I’m in the guest bedroom across from Traxell’s.”

_“Very good, my Lady.”_

Satisfied, she turns around and stares at the door apprehensively. He watches her smooth out her tunic which has a diamond pattern throughout it with rosy-pink mini-diamonds in the centers. The main color of the material is an off-white shade, leaning towards a greyish hue. Dark pink buttons, matching her stud earrings, line from her collar down to her stomach. The tunic has three-quarter sleeves and a hemline that reaches her upper thighs. Below, she has donned a light grey pair of form-fitting trousers and rosy-pink slippers with silver beading.

Again, she irons out her clothes with her hands. There are no obvious wrinkles on her semi-fancy attire, and the Mandalorian suspects that this is her way of calming her nerves and collecting her thoughts. He figures she does not have enough time to change so she can receive her guest in finer clothing.

With this thought in mind, RUBY returns.

“Lord Qasim is in the entertainment room, as requested,” it informs Talia. “He has refused any kind of refreshments, even when I offered him our best Onderonian wine.”

“Then he’s here for business,” the Mandalorian states in his gravelly voice.

“Well, he isn’t here for pleasure, my _burc’ya_ *,” she says, and he is not sure if there is amusement or sarcasm in her voice. “He’s been married twice and has no intention of getting involved again,” she supplies. “Especially not with someone a decade younger than him with a questionable reputation.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: BOOR-sha)_

“Who’s also a rival,” he adds.

“Yes.” Talia heads for the door, ready to confront her guest head-on, but she pauses. Turning around to face him, she quietly asks, “Would you be willing to come with me?”

His head jerks half an inch at the question. “Me? Why?”

“If he sees you with me, he might not want to stay long.”

She is not pleading with him with her eyes like a child asking for an expensive gift on her birthday, and he does not detect any frailty in her accent. He figures that she wants to end this meeting with Nader as soon as possible and that his presence can help this along. So, he shrugs his shoulders and says, “Well, if you think it’ll help. But who will watch the kid?” He still does not trust RUBY enough to be Vandar’s babysitter.

As one, they both glance at the green child and find him chewing on a blue rubbery toy the shape of a Dalgos, a four-legged animal that resembles a horse.

“RUBY,” Talia directs her attention back to her droid. “I want you to stay here and watch Vandar. I’ll have Gia relieve you shortly. Then, I need you to be on stand-by while I speak with Lord Qasim.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

With a nod, Talia leads the way out the door. It slides shut behind the Mandalorian as they walk down the hall in silence. A petite figure dressed in baby blue meets them halfway: Gia, Talia’s handmaiden. Her mousy-brown hair is tied in a loose bun, and in her hands is the shawl her mistress had requested.

“Thank you, Gia,” Talia greets her, accepting her accessory. “Please take care of Vandar for us. We shouldn’t be too long.”

“Yes, my Lady.” The younger woman gives them a respectful nod and glides into the room they had just vacated.

Meanwhile, Talia wraps her shawl around her. It has a thick hemline all round with pink, grey, and white stripes. The shawl itself is made from a white, see-through material that reminds him of moonlight. She throws one end over her shoulder and wraps the other around her back so it covers her arm. He does not know why Talia had asked for it in the first place. Or why she believes she needs it. It must be an Onderonian woman thing; this whole culture’s clothing revolves around layers of fabric from tunics, to trousers, to shawls and veils, and to head-coverings.

Once she is content with how she arranged her shawl, Talia slings her dark braid over her should then resumes walking down the hall. He follows her, noticing how tight her shoulders look. Before they come into view of the courtyard, she faces him. She surveys his appearance with a woman’s eye, probably searching for a stain in his tunic or dirt on his boots.

“Here, let me do this,” she quietly says, lifting up her hands. Her bracelets clink together as she grabs his grey cloak and drapes it over his upper chest like a lord’s cape. “It’ll hide the fact that you don’t have a Clan’s signet on your armor,” she explains.

He does not flinch or tense up as she adjusts his cloak according to her preference for a few more seconds. Curious, he asks her, “How are you going to explain me, to Nader?”

“I’ll think of something,” she tells him, dropping her hands and giving him a nod of approval. “Oh, and let me do the talking.”

With a nod of his own, he trails behind his host as she leads the way to the upstairs entertainment room. Down the hall, he can hear RUBY exiting the guest quarters where Gia is now babysitting Vandar.

They find Qasim Nader where the droid-butler had left him. Even with his back to them the Mandalorian figures that the Minster of Trade is about his height, yet Nader seems more round in the torso area. His curly hair, black with gray streaks, hangs an inch or two above his shoulders. It looks shaggy but still neatly groomed.

Talia clears her throat, which prompts Nader to spin around. He is wearing a charcoal tunic with midnight trousers and shoes—not slippers. Silver threading is embedded in the expensive material, swirling into an ornate design at the sleeve cuffs, collar, and hemlines of Nader’s tunic. Three large rings—made from gold, copper, and silver—adorn his fingers.

The Solarian Lord’s tanned skin has a few wrinkles near his round eyes, which is normal considering the man is three years past fifty. He has a goatee to match his dark beard that thinly covers his jawline, chin, and upper lip. Surprisingly, his facial hair has zero trace of gray. The Mandalorian notices Nader’s dark brows lift up a centimeter when his cunning brown eyes land on him and his silver armor.

“Minister Nader,” Talia greets her visitor. Her voice is crisp as she nods at him stiffly. “What an unexpected visit.”

The other man gives her a slight bow. “Counselor Dewan, good evening. And who is this?” he asks, pointing at the Mandalorian with his bearded chin.

“My bodyguard,” she easily explains, the lie sounding almost too natural. To reinforce his cover, he straightens his stance behind her.

Nader returns his attention to Talia. “Seems out of character for you.”

“After Cholganna, I thought one would be appropriate.”

“But that was over two months ago,” he observes, suspicion coating his thick Onderonian accent.

“It took some time to find the right one.”

Talia walks to the three-seater sofa on her left and settles herself in the middle; her posture is stiff, and her shoulders, straight. Posing as a good bodyguard, the Mandalorian follows her then stations himself next to the couch. As he clasps his hands behind his back, he makes sure that he can see Talia without having to turn his head. He now knows why she had asked for her shawl. Sitting there on the cushioned sofa with it wrapped around her, his host looks more professional, more regal—more powerful. The shawl enhances the illusion of her dominance in the Manor, and it is working very well if he says so himself.

While she perches on the couch like a grand lady, he observes that Talia does not offer Nader a seat on either of the armchairs stationed diagonally across from her. And from the way the Solarian Lord presses his lips together, he knows that Nader has noticed this, too.

“There is something I wish to discuss,” he begins but stops. His eyes flash to the Mandalorian before asking, “Is him being here really necessary?”

“I’d prefer to have someone I can trust nearby,” Talia coolly replies.

Like a man who has given orders all of his life, Nader waves a hand at him and haughtily says, “Send him away, if you will. What I wish to discuss is of a . . . private matter.”

The Mandalorian waits for his host to respond, and she does not disappoint. “You will understand when I insist that he remain here.”

“I will not harm you,” Nader guarantees, though his tone sounds more like an annoyed sigh than genuine reassurance. “If anyone is in need of protection, I believe it would be me. But as you can see, I am quite alone.”

Again, he waits—along with the visitor—for Talia to answer. However, she merely holds Nader’s gaze and says nothing. After several seconds, her guest relents with a nod, his calculated stare fixed on her with disapproval.

“Very well. Your house, your rules,” Nader respectfully states. “I can see you still blame me for the spice mix up.”

“Our tense history is more than enough evidence for me to not take your word for it,” she remarks in a flat tone.

“I will tell you now what I said at Court: Bezden was acting alone _without_ my consent. He got too ambitious for his own good,” he mutters.

 _Then you should’ve kept him on a shorter leash,_ the Mandalorian inwardly barks at the other man.

“He has been your aide, helping you fight against me for years. Do you think I can’t see that you used him as a scapegoat?” Talia practically accuses, but he notices that she withholds any anger from escaping her lips.

“Wasn’t terminating his position on my staff enough to convince you? That I had no part in framing you?”

 _So, that’s what happened to that arrogant pip-squeak,_ the Mandalorian realizes. _He’s small potatoes. No wonder I didn’t find a public file on him._

“No, _my Lord_ ,” his host bites back. “Because you still have him employed in Kira City on your estate there.”

“He was a loyal staff member, and I will not dismiss his years of service. Giving him employment is the least I can do for him,” the Minister defends, his eyes flashing with stubbornness. “I would expect you to understand the value of loyalty, _my Lady_.”

Despite the fact that he is not truly a part of this conversation, the Mandalorian feels his blood heat up at Nader’s barb. His and Talia’s culture has defined—and is the embodiment of—loyalty, a fact that the other man should be all too familiar with considering the star system he lives in.

The heated verbal spar extinguishes like a snuffed-out flame, and a tense silence takes its place. He sneaks a glance at Talia. Her expression is shadowed with mistrust and dislike towards Nader. The way she defiantly glares at her rival and lifts up her chin just a little almost makes her look like a snob. But he knows better. He cannot help but feel that she is in her element, delving into the filthy mires of politics where things have the tendency to get too personal. Admiration and respect for her grow within him. With her sharp wit and quick tongue as her weapons in her arsenal, she is more than a match for Nader.

However, the darkly-dressed Minister is a worthy sparring partner—not to mention that his glares match hers. His back is as straight as a pole, and his lips are on the verge of a sneer. The Mandalorian admits to himself that Nader emanates both power and authority.

“I am well-acquainted with loyalty,” Talia slowly replies. “Yours is only to your pocketbook.”

“To the Crown’s pocketbook,” he corrects. “And to my family.”

“You mean your family’s empire.”

Nader huffs at her remark. “I’d rather not get into that same old argument with you. I came here—”

He takes a step forward as if to tower over Talia. Not liking the move, the Mandalorian dramatically crosses his arms in front of him, silently warning the Minister to back off. His sign is noticed, and Nader withdraws to his original spot.

“I came,” he resumes, “for a different reason.”

“Oh, yes. A ‘private matter,’” Talia quotes, a scoff bleeding through her tone. “What can you possibly have to discuss with me of all people?”

“If you haven’t noticed by now, but I have been less hostile to you these past few years.”

The scoff in Talia’s voice emerges, and the Mandalorian wants to release one of his own. _Is he expecting a ‘thank you’?_

“And for that I should be grateful?” his host echoes his thoughts. “And listen to what you have to say like one of your favorite aides?”

At this, Nader crosses his arms like an instructor disappointed with his pupil’s latest test score. Clad in dark clothing with shimmering silver embroidery, he reminds the Mandalorian of a thundercloud crackling with lightning.

“I was hoping that your stubbornness wouldn’t cloud your usually clever mind and allow you to recognize that I am _not_ as greedy and pompous as you believed me to be.”

“That’s a kind description of how I see you, Minster Nader,” she snaps.

The jab makes the Mandalorian smirk behind his helmet. He is rather enjoying watching her verbally push Nader off his high horse. Yet the Solarian Lord seems more frustrated than insulted by how this conversation is going.

“I think we both need to cool down,” he grimly comments, lifting his hands in front of him in an attempt to placate the fiery emotions swirling in the already heated room. “We’ve started on the wrong foot tonight.”

Two heartbeats pass before Talia says, “Quite.”

The Mandalorian watches them hold each other’s gaze, and the room begins to lessen in temperature. Talia rises from her seat on the couch and walks to the open door from where they had entered. His eyes follow her figure wrapped in her moonlight shawl, but he remains at his post, not sure of what to do. Movement on his left catches his gaze: it is Nader, crossing his arms again and staring at the floor.

Instinctively, his feet lead him to Talia. She is leaning against the doorframe, taking in slow, long breaths. He feels more than knows that she is trying to calm down. When he nears her, he sees that her eyes are closed, and she is whispering to herself. Her accent is so low that his ears can only catch a handful of fragments. Something about needing perspective and having too much emotion and that she should know better.

“You okay?” he quietly asks.

Hearing his voice, she opens her eyes again. She glances his way and gives him a soft, reassuring smile. “I am now.”

A half-smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he is about to open his mouth when they both hear her guest smoothly call out to her like a relaxing wind: “Are you ready to proceed, my Lady?”

Her eyes are still fixed on his visor when she replies, “Yes, my Lord.”

She sends him another smile before returning to her place at the couch, but Talia does not sit down. He trails behind her and takes his original position beside the cushioned furniture. Nader gives their host a respectful nod, and she returns it. At the moment, the atmosphere feels more serene and courteous than it did when this conversation started.

“You said ‘a private matter’?” Talia renews the discussion, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Yes.” The Minster nods again. “It’s because it is both personal and political.”

“I’m intrigued, my Lord.”

 _Me, too,_ the Mandalorian silently agrees.

“Can we drop the formalities please?”

“If you wish,” Talia approves. She then gestures to the armchair to her left—it is the one closest to Nader. The Mandalorian recognizes this as a small peace offering, and he can already feel the mood shift in the room.

“I’m obliged, Talia,” Nader sincerely replies before taking a seat.

“What is on your mind, Qasim?” she asks, settling herself down on the couch.

The man crosses a leg over his knee and sets each of his hands on the arms of his chair. “You know there are discussions about possible brides for the King.”

_Okay, that’s not what I was expecting him to lead with._

“I am aware of them,” Talia admits, unknowingly agreeing with the Mandalorian. She folds her hands in her lap. “However, I believe the King is too unaccustomed to the throne to be betrothed at this time.”

“It may surprise you to know that I agree with you,” the other man reveals. “But I understand why some of the nobles and Council Members are considering this. They don’t want another Royal to die without siring an heir. Though it worked out after the King’s uncle died, I believe we can both agree that Thea had been unprepared to be the next ruler.”

 _Be careful not to insult her cousin,_ the Mandalorian inwardly warns. He knows how loyal and devoted his host is to the former queen.

“As terrible as it is to discuss an outcome that results in Ridha’s death,” she remarks, “I doubt I have to remind you, Qasim, that he has two siblings that can take his place. And they are both being taught the tricks of the trade.”

“Of course. There are several people who are against the idea of Ramsis becoming King since he is destined to swear himself to the Creed. Never has a Mando ruled Onderon, and with all due respect—” He nods apologetically at both of the Mandalorians in the room. “—that must _not_ happen.”

As the bounty hunter tries not to feel insulted by the statement, Talia points out, “You were one of Kavan’s strongest supporters for him to be named Regent. And he practically rules the Japrael System.”

“A twenty-year-old Kavan would not have had my support. As you are aware, he has become more Onderonian. Despite his Mandalorian thinking and tendencies,” Nader continues, sitting forward in his seat, “Kavan puts Onderon first because he is trying to preserve his wife’s legacy and all the sacrifices she made.”

 _What’s he getting at?_ the Mandalorian asks himself. _What does any of this have to do with his personal business?_ The introduction and transition into the real reason that brought Nader here is taking too long, and he wonders if Talia shares his opinion.

“Betrothals and prospective brides are premature topics for Ridha,” his host realistically states, flicking invisible lint from her shawl. “However, not everyone at Court shares . . . our view.” The way she said _our_ is hesitant and tense, making the Mandalorian believe she has rarely been on the same page with her visitor.

“You’re correct. Yet I believe we can . . . steer whoever is suitable towards the King. Just as much as we can set aside those whom we deem unsuitable,” Nader finishes with a flash of ambition in his brown eyes.

Talia tilts her head at him, interested. “I’m listening.”

At this, the Mandalorian watches the Minister set both feet on the floor, place his elbows on his thighs, and press his hands together. His Onderonian accent is quiet when he says, “My granddaughter, Lily, has been listed as a potential bride for the King.”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” she comments. “And I’ve also heard it whisper that you had taken great pains to name her. Though, some do not like the fact that she’s five years younger than Ridha. She is still a child.”

“And I’ve heard,” Nader replies, “that because she is my granddaughter, you have automatically disapproved of her.”

 _Of course she does,_ the Mandalorian inwardly snorts.

Two heartbeats pass before Talia asks, “Can you blame me?”

The other man grimly smiles. “No. But you may also be surprised to know that I have . . . changed my mind about her becoming a prospective bride.”

“Oh?” his host comments, quirking a dark eyebrow at him. Her voice is painted with suspicion when she comments, “It’s hard to believe that you simply ‘changed your mind.’”

“It is more like a . . . change of heart. And yes, Talia,” Nader states, “I do in fact have one. And it isn’t made of stone.”

With a shake of her head, the Mandalorian hears her say, “I rescind my previous statement, Qasim. _This_ is harder to believe.”

There is no humor in the Minister’s expression when he remarks, “I’m sure.”

“So, explain to me why you changed your position on bringing Lily forward.”

The other man does not answer right away. Instead, he eyes the Mandalorian warily, obviously still not wanting to discuss the personal matter in front of a stranger. However, Talia does not dismiss him—a decision that he finds himself grateful for. He is fascinated with this conversation.

“You know my marriage history,” Nader begins. “Both arranged. Both strategically planned to benefit my family’s name and position. And I’m sure you’re well aware that there was no affection in either of them.”

“I’d never met Yael,” Talia admits. “I do know that she lived mostly in Solaris.”

The Mandalorian tries to remember what he had read from the Minister’s public files. In seconds, his brain reminds him that Yael was the man’s first wife. Together they had two children, a son and daughter named Kostas and Sabira. While Nader stayed in Onderon’s capital, his wife preferred to live in Solaris, the planet’s mining city. And if he remembers correctly, Yael had been killed during the Solaris Riot, an uprising with the purpose of rebelling against the newly formed Galactic Empire.

“I also know,” Talia adds, “that you didn’t waste any time re-marrying after she died.”

“Ah, Naila,” Nader hums to himself, settling back into his armchair. “I married her for her inheritance and her dowry. And we made each other miserable.”

From what the Mandalorian can remember about the Minister’s second wife, Naila was a rich baroness from Kira City, Onderon’s agricultural capital. Her family, the Antars, were powerful and practically ruled the city. Naila had a farmland of her own and a small estate called Rawda Hall, which Nader had inherited after her death. The couple had two sons: Ziad, an apprentice learning the family’s agricultural business in Kira City; and Rami, a Mandalorian sworn to Clan Kex who lives on Dxun and who has a strained relationship with his father.

“The entire Court felt your . . . tense relationship,” Talia delicately phrases, interrupting the Mandalorian’s quick browsing of his mental archives. “I wasn’t surprised when I was informed that Naila’s heart failed her. I hear the entire Antar family still holds you responsible.”

“They should blame their own DNA for that medical issue,” the twice-widower mutters under his breath. He then clears his throat and quietly shares, “The only pride and joy my marriages have given me are my children. Kostas, Sabira, Ziad, and even Rami—I have worked hard to provide for them.

“I admit that, when I put Lily’s name down on the bride list, I was only thinking of the advantages a marriage alliance with the Royal family would bring me.” Dropping his eyes from Talia, Nader sighs heavily, and his shoulders sag. “I visited Sabira and the family a week ago, and when I saw Lily, I realized I didn’t want her to go through what I did just so I can benefit from it.

“She is my oldest granddaughter, and I love her dearly.” He looks back at his host, his gaze determined. “Her happiness is more important to me than influence and power. I’m ashamed that I was selfish enough to even entertain the idea of using her.”

Silence engulfs the room after Nader’s lengthy speech. The man spoke eloquently, and the Mandalorian has a strong feeling that none of the emotions coloring his words were for show. He steals a glance at Talia and finds her carefully eyeing Nader.

“This is a side to you, Qasim, that I’ve not seen in you before,” she observes with a soft voice.

“Half my life has been spent. And when you get there, Talia, you’ll realize what’s truly important.”

“So, what do you want me to do?” she asks, a question the Mandalorian stops himself from posing to the Minister.

At this, Nader sits forward in his seat. “Help me discourage the Court in considering Lily as a potential bride. Her name’s at the top of the list.”

“Why me?” she queries. “And not the rest of your allies?”

An amused smile plays on his lips. “Despite our differences, I admire and respect you. But I’ve chosen you because I can’t have everyone at Court find out that old age has made me soft.” He crosses his arms. “I know you’ll be discreet, and people won’t find it unusual when they hear you opposing Lily.”

The Mandalorian fights the urge to shake his head. _Politicians,_ he grumbles. _Why do they have to make things so complicated? This entire visit is just for a simple, little favor._

“Kavan and you have been close allies,” his host points out. “Why not go to him instead?”

“Because I know the King would listen if _you_ are the one steering him away from Lily,” Nader replies. “He’ll only see Kavan as his father telling him what to do rather than a Regent advising him.”

 _Of course the kid’ll listen to her,_ the Mandalorian scoffs. _She’s his godmother._

“If Lily does catch the King’s eye at some point when they’re older, I can’t stop him from being attracted to her. Lily is quite pretty,” Talia states, “and she is the daughter of a distinguished military family. They’re bound to meet more often.”

Waving a hand, the Solarian Lord says, “I won’t oppose the match if they truly do grow fond of each other. I just don’t want there to be an impersonal alliance between them.”

Talia slowly nods her head. “You truly have surprised me this evening.”

_And you’re not the only one, Kex._

“Do we have an understanding?”

“I believe we have more than that, Qasim,” she comments with a nod.

“A truce then,” her former rival declares, standing. “I must go. People will be wondering where I’ve disappeared to if I don’t leave now.”

As Talia rises to her feet, the Mandalorian pretends to stand up straighter.

“Of course,” she says, walking over to the intercom by the door. “RUBY,” she speaks into it. “Our guest is leaving.”

 _“Yes, Mistress,”_ the droid’s quiet voice crackles through the comms.

With a satisfied nod, Talia leads the way out of the room. While Nader follows her, the Mandalorian trails behind them, covering the rear like an experienced bodyguard. A silence more compatible than he expects settles amongst them as Talia escorts her guest down the West Wing stairs to the front door. RUBY is already there, a black robe of some kind in his red-plated arms. The Mandalorian slows his steps and halts a yard or two away, giving the two politicians some space.

After RUBY hands the midnight robe to Nader, Talia dismisses her butler-droid. Once it is out of earshot, the Minister says to her, “I look forward to any upcoming collaborations.”

“Unlike before, I will keep an open mind,” she replies, and the bounty hunter can hear a smile in her Coruscant accent.

Nader slips his robe on. “I hardly see you at the Temple these days, but I assume you will be attending the Princess’ birthday celebration next week.”

“I will.”

“And I expect your bodyguard will be accompanying you,” he comments, nodding at the Mandalorian.

“What do you think, my Lord?” she quips.

“Quite right,” Nader chuckles. He then reaches for Talia’s hand and kisses it, perhaps a little too softly in her “bodyguard’s” opinion. “We should’ve reached a truce a long time ago, my Lady. I believe it is overdue,” he quietly adds.

“Then I hope we can be on better terms in the near future, my Lord.”

The other man releases her hand and bows respectfully to her. His hands reach for his robe’s hood, and before he covers his head, Nader sends Talia a pleased smile. With a hooded nod, he exits Dewan Manor, blending in with the shadows of the neighborhood.

After Talia closes the door, the Mandalorian watches her press her hands onto the gilded surface and lean forward. Her forehead is up against it, and she remains in this position for several seconds. From her tight shoulders, he has a feeling a whirlwind of thoughts must be going on in her mind.

He does not interrupt her until his ears pick up RUBY’s metal feet shuffling across the courtyard. “That was an unexpected meeting,” he states, walking closer to her. He hears the protocol droid disappear into the kitchen, and he is thankful it had the programmed sense not to interrupt them at this moment.

Turning herself around, Talia sends him a forced yet tired smile. “It was. And I’m sorry I made you listen to all that. I thought about letting you go, but Qasim was opening up more than I’ve ever seen him. I didn’t want anything to distract him.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I get it. It was . . . interesting to watch. Remind me not to get entangled with you when it comes to politics.”

Instead of chuckling, she only hums at him, obviously distracted. Her eyes are fixed on something over his shoulder, but he doubts she is looking at anything in particular.

“I’m beginning to doubt if I’ve really known Qasim,” she softly admits. “Perhaps my preconception of him blinded me from seeing him in this light.”

“Well, older age and kids do have the tendency to change people.”

“So I’ve heard and seen. But I thought he’d be immune to it.”

He knows how perceptive his host is, how well she can read people. When they first met, Talia was able to pull information out of him better than anyone has ever done. She had watched his body movement, paid attention to his wording, listened closely to his tone—hardly anything went past her. Not for the first time, he thinks she would have made a great interrogator.

Now, as he watches her run her teeth over her bottom lip, he realizes that Talia had taken great pride in this ability. Nader’s visit, his softer side, his change of heart—it had puzzled her, and even shook her. He will not be surprised if she is going through all of her conversations with Nader, their arguments, their ploys to counter one another, and everything in between.

Thinking she may want some time to herself, he says, “I better check in on the kid.” He turns to leave and makes it up three steps when Talia calls him.

“Ordo, would you mind if Vandar stays with you tonight?”

He glances over his shoulder, tilting his head at her. She suddenly looks tired, and he notices her fiddling with the end of her moonlight-colored shawl.

“No, I don’t mind,” he tells her. “Everything okay?”

The reassuring smile she sends him is wobbly when she says, “It’s just . . . I need to m-mull this over.”

Before he can stop himself, he quirks an eyebrow at her. _Mull? That’s not a word I’d expect to hear from her. It sounds too . . . uneducated._

However, he dismisses her word choice and says, “Sure.”

“Send Gia to my room, please?” she asks him. “I’ll have her bring you Vandar’s cradle.”

After he nods at her, Talia wanders up the East Wing stairs like a distracted, listless ghost.

As he watches her, he notices that, peeking through an overcast sky, is Dxun. The Manor’s lights are on, eliminating any chance of the moon’s greenish hues from descending on them. From its hiding place behind a layer of clouds, the emerald sphere seems to pulse with energy as if it had been an uninvited fourth member of the meeting, witnessing a collaboration between Talia and Nader when it should have been minding its own business. By now, he should be used to seeing Dxun loom over them, but he figures that, because of its eerie color, the Demon Moon slightly unnerves him.

When Talia disappears from his view, he hopes she does not get too hard on herself for “missing” this new side to Nader that they had both witnessed. Just because the Minster of Trade exposed a weakness to her does not indicate that he is no longer a lover of business and money. Though Nader’s adoration for his granddaughter is commendable, that does not mean he is a new man. The Mandalorian has faith that his host will not take too long to “mull this over.” Nader is not worth getting a headache for.

With that thought in mind, he walks up the staircase leading to his side of the Manor.

His side.

The description makes his feet falter on the sandstone steps. That sounds too . . . domestic to him. He should not be getting _this_ comfortable here at Talia’s house. Perhaps he needs to again broach the subject of how he can settle his life-debt to her.

* * *

Talia's Attire:

(I can't help finding clothes for her :) It's just too much fun!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed some information on Qasim Nader’s file. It isn't anything too drastic, but if you're interested or would like to refresh your memory about him, check out the first half of Chapter 9 of “Bleeding Beskar”.


	7. Mando’ad Draar Digu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give credit where credit is due. The quote used down below is from poet David Jones. Here is his website: https://story-dj.tumblr.com/post/33252053358/so-many-people-become-songs-and-poetry-but. I was looking for quotes like this and came across David Jones', and I thought it worked.
> 
> I'm sorry again for delaying a second week in the row. This chapter was hard to write. Hope you find it fascinating!

Chapter VII: _Mando’ad Draar Digu_

The morning after Nader’s visit is overcast and quiet. Almost too quiet. The Manor is usually soundless since only a handful of people go in and out of it. However, the smallest noise, like a sneeze from the baby, echoes down the hallway of the West Wing and travels on and on far longer than the Mandalorian has ever noticed before.

He strides through the hall with Vandar following him. The kid is happy this morning despite the fact that he kept looking at the door during breakfast. His guardian knew Vandar was expecting Talia to come waltzing into the room at any moment, but she did not make an appearance—which is why he is leading the kid to the courtyard. An early riser like himself, Talia is probably eating her morning meal in the dining room with RUBY bustling about making sure she has everything she needs.

When he reaches the balcony, his eyes drift to the dining room, but it is closed off, telling him that it has not been used since last night. He frowns. Talia is not one to take her meals in her quarters, so she must still be asleep, or perhaps she had eaten much earlier than him.

A shadow dims the usually bright atmosphere of the courtyard, and he glances above him. Hovering in the gray sky is a thick cloud, its body puffy and long, but he does not think it will rain. At least, not on this side of Iziz. The sun’s rays cannot penetrate the cloud, and the sandstone walls of the Manor seem grim like the interior of a catacomb.

Out of the corner of his eye, a blur of dark red moves, followed by a clattering of metal feet. He looks down and spots RUBY strutting across the courtyard. In his hands are strands of cables. The droid-butler secures the end of one cable to a pillar on the East Wing then walks over to the opposite pillar on the West side and ties that end to it.

 _Laundry day,_ the Mandalorian realizes as he watches RUBY repeat this process two more times.

For the next couple of hours, the cables will be covered in wet sheets, towels, clothes, and rags, all hanging out to dry. The force-field protecting the courtyard from outside elements definitely comes in handy during overcast days like today. He remembers the first time the laundry was set up throughout the courtyard: Talia had played with Vandar numerous games of hide-and-seek amongst the damp jungle of towels and sheets.

As RUBY disappears into the kitchen, the Mandalorian can hear the baby off to his left. He spies him slowly waddling towards the entertainment room, but the little one will not find Talia there, only the stale words of last night’s conversation.

“Oh, good morning, Master Traxell,” he hears RUBY greet him. When he looks down again, he sees the protocol droid craning his metal head at him. In his hands is a basket filled with damp laundry. “Was your meal satisfactory?” he asks.

“Yes. It was,” he curtly replies, walking towards Vandar.

“I shall retrieve the breakfast items from your room. Once I finish hanging these up,” the droid informs him, his voice as soft as a whispering wind.

Normally, his mechanical vocal cords would not bother the Mandalorian, but since there is something “off” about the Manor this morning, RUBY’s voice sounds eerie, almost phantom-like.

“Shouldn’t Gia be doing that?” he asks as he sweeps up Vandar in his arms. He has noticed that hanging up the laundry is the handmaiden’s task.

Still completing his chore, RUBY replies, “Miss Gia is not here. My mistress has dismissed her for the day.”

“Where _is_ Talia?” he asks, looking around and finding no trace of her. “Is she even up?”

“Yes, she has been awake—as far as I am aware—for approximately two hours before I brought you and Master Vandar your breakfast.” RUBY hangs up a cream-colored tablecloth with a blue floral pattern. “She informed me that she has an abundance of work to complete and would prefer not to be disturbed. Also, she has not left her room as of yet.”

As the droid continues setting out the laundry, the baby watches him with rapt attention. He wiggles in his guardian’s arms, no doubt wanting to play amongst the damp towels again.

“Okay, thanks,” the Mandalorian says as he sets his charge on the ground. Instead of heading downstairs, Vandar once more shuffles towards the entertaining room. “Anything else I should know about?”

With a pair of forest green pillowcases in his grasp, RUBY stops working and answers, “Only that Mister Japp had been here.”

 _Haar’chak_ * _! I missed him again,_ the man inwardly exclaims. Ever since he entered the Manor, he has been trying to get a glimpse of the gardener and handyman—for security reasons, of course. But much to his frustration, Japp has always alluded him. _Talia wasn’t kidding. That man’s a ghost._

 _(_ * _pronounced: HAR-chak; translation: “Damn it”)_

In the back of his brain he hears RUBY continue his report on the invisible staff member: “He attended to the garden and fixed a leakage in the kitchen pipes. Madam Solaria was extremely grateful.”

“I’m sure she was,” he mutters, glancing in Vandar’s direction. When he sees that the baby has disappeared from his view, he quickly strides to the entertaining room. “Thanks,” he calls over his shoulder to RUBY.

He enters his destination and finds the room deserted. Amazed that the womp rat can walk faster when his little mind is set, the Mandalorian marches through the room, and when he reaches the threshold on the other side, he notices Vandar about to turn the corner and enter the East Wing of the house. Quickly, he walks over to the baby in record time and picks him up.

At the sudden interruption of his journey, Vandar whines.

“Not now, kiddo. She’s busy,” the Mandalorian scolds him. He glances down the hall to Talia’s room then focuses his attention back onto his ward. “Looks like it’s just you and me for a while. And I think we’ll go to the market today. How’s that sound?”

Vandar’s green lips form a frown, but when the word _market_ registers in his brain, his eyes shine with excitement.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” the man says with a smirk.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Three hours later . . ._

After wandering the merchant’s market in Talia’s neighborhood with the child strapped to his back, the Mandalorian closes the door to the Manor. He automatically notices that the courtyard is empty of hanging laundry, and the sun is once again hiding behind a blockade of clouds. While he was out, he had heard some people discussing the weather. Apparently, a thunderstorm had hit the northern sector of Iziz, but this side of the city is predicted to only have heavy cloud cover.

 _Let’s see if the weather agrees with the forecast,_ he muses with a smirk.

As he slips off his backpack-turned-baby carrier and gently sets it on the entryway’s floor, he thinks about how he may have seen Bezden Cass hurrying through the morning rush in the market. A skinny man with a round stomach had caught his attention, but he was not able to get a very good look at the stranger before the crowd swallowed him up. The Mandalorian had merely blinked, and the Cass-lookalike was gone. So, it may not have been Nader’s former aide. Besides, he had learned yesterday that Cass was employed in Kira City, which is almost on the other side of the planet. What would he be doing here in Iziz? And in the same district that Talia lived in?

 _Nah,_ he decides as he removes Vandar from his carrier. _It wasn’t him._

He hears noises upstairs floating down from the East Wing. The lack of sun is making the house seem abandoned, and the shadows look darker. But the unsettling feeling does not bother Vandar. The baby is currently chewing on a piece of Boma jerky, and his pointy ears twitch at the sounds before flapping down. Then, he begins hobbling towards the East Wing’s staircase.

Amused at how his ward plans on climbing up at least fifteen steps all on his own, the Mandalorian stands up, slings the backpack over his shoulder, and watches Vandar try to scramble onto the first stair.

Taking pity on the child, he scoops up the green infant and ascends the steps two at a time. About halfway up, he distinctly recognizes RUBY’s quiet voice, whispering from the gray shadows of the hallway. When he reaches the top, he can hear the protocol droid saying, “I entreat you, my Lady. You should eat a meal in order to keep up your strength.”

Curious if Talia has actually emerged from her bedroom, the Mandalorian quickens his pace and turns the corner. The hallway is a little dim, but he is able to see RUBY standing in front of Talia’s door with a tray of food is in his hands.

The baby giggles when he spots his red-plated friend, and the noise is registered by RUBY. He stiffly moves his metal body towards them, his golden eyes glowing and his face expressionless.

“I thought you said Talia ordered to be left alone,” the Mandalorian says, making sure his voice is not too loud.

“She said she would ‘prefer’ it,” RUBY shares with him. He then steers himself away from his mistress’ door. “However, I have known her to accept some food after a few hours.” The droid walks past them, the food tray still in his grasp.

“Does she lock herself in her room a lot?” the Mandalorian asks, following close behind.

“She has done it a few times. That is, before you and Master Vandar arrived.”

The trio exit the hallway as Vandar pops the last piece of his jerky into his mouth.

“And before that?”

“Mistress Talia has hardly ever stayed at the Manor,” RUBY answers. He begins to descend the stairs, but his steps are slow as he balances the items on the food tray and continues his account. “I was offline for long periods of time. When she did come, she mostly stayed in her room, the study, or the library.”

“So, this isn’t something out of the ordinary then?” the man calls out.

RUBY does not answer right way; instead, he waits until he reaches the bottom of the steps. Then, he inclines his head up and says, “No, Master Traxell. This is not irregular of Mistress Talia. There have been several occasions when she has secluded herself in her room for hours on end. She claims to be working and thinking.” He moves again, heading for the courtyard. “From what my databanks recollect, she abstains from food and does not ask for anything. However, I have once or twice been able to convince her to receive some sustenance.”

As the Mandalorian allows this information to sink in, he walks closer to the balcony’s railing so he can get a better view of the droid. At that moment, R6 rolls from the study into the courtyard. The trash-compactor swivels its head and maneuvers its cylinder body towards him and Vandar. The baby coos at R6 as the smaller droid chirps loudly at both of them.

Once R6 is done with its mechanical nonsense, the Mandalorian jerks his head to RUBY, waiting for a translation.

“R6 says that Lady Talia must not be disturbed,” the red-plated butler relays, “and that we need to stop bothering her.” Before the bounty hunter can snap at the tin-can, RUBY turns to R6 and quietly defends, “But I was only trying to help her, my little orange friend. She will not turn _me_ offline for looking out for her best interests. Unlike you.” At this, R6 beeps then whirs, and the noises sound like a question. “Yes, _you_ ,” RUBY scolds and then heads for the kitchen. “Your rude circuits have earned you hours, sometimes days, of being turned off.”

In his arms, Vandar giggles as the droids argue with one another. RUBY slips into the kitchen, and R6 follows, whistling and tweeting angrily. The racket makes the Mandalorian clench his jaw. The kitchen door swooshes close, and he is glad he does not have to listen to anymore of the bickering.

 _Droids,_ he inwardly grumbles. _Who needs them?_

Knowing that an afternoon meal will be sent to him and the child within the next hour, he decides to return to his quarters. Vandar whines and stretches his short arms in the direction of Talia’s room, but his guardian walks faster in the direction of his suite.

“Lunch first,” he firmly tells his ward in a tone that sounds too parental, even in his own ears.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Two hours later . . ._

It has been over seven hours since Talia locked herself in her room, and yes, he is counting. As he strides down the hall of the East Wing, he admits to himself that he is starting to get concerned. But the only reason why her absence has been at the forefront of his mind is because keeps finding the baby heading for her door.

He knows Vandar misses Talia. A lot. She has hardly ever been separated from him since they arrived. And if the Mandalorian is being honest, even _he_ is starting to miss her. The house is just not the same without her running it. He is aware that his host does not see the Manor as her home, but whether she realizes it or not, _she_ is the reason why it feels like a home and why he no longer has any qualms about lodging here.

As he turns the corner, he spies the kid hobbling towards Talia’s room. He glances at him when his guardian quickly approaches him. A coo that sounds like a question escapes the kid’s lips the moment he is picked up. This is the third time he has slipped out of the Mandalorian’s room and waddled over to hers.

With Vandar secured in his arms, his pointy green ears shift towards the door. His eyes widen before squinting, as if he had heard something and is trying to hear it again.

Wondering about this quiet sound, the Mandalorian leans his own body closer to the door, also stretching his hearing in order to catch any kind of noise from beyond the thick door. He waits and holds his breath. A few seconds pass, but his ears register no sound, no shuffling, not even a sneeze or a cough. He pulls away from the door and shakes his head.

“Come on, you little womp rat,” he whispers to Vandar as he carries him back to his suite. “Like I’ve told you before: leave her alone. She’ll come out and play with you soon.”

Once he returns to his room, the Mandalorian retrieves his backpack and puts the baby inside it again. He figures they could both use a distraction, so a walk around the city should do the trick.

After informing RUBY of his plans, he and Vandar begin wandering the neighborhood. For a while he allows his legs to stretch out, but then he eventually hails a taxi and instructs the droid-driver to take him to Boma’s Brews. The cantina should be fairly deserted at this time in the afternoon. But when evening rolls in, he will take the baby and leave since he does not want to expose Vandar to any riffraff looking for alcohol.

During the taxi drive, he thinks he catches another glance of Cass. But the driver zooms through the half-empty streets so fast that he is still not sure if it was him. The stranger was wearing a bright orange tunic and trousers, making him stand out on this overcast day. The clothes reminded him of Cass’ fancy attire on Cholganna, yet he is sure the demoted aide is not the only one to wear that color.

 _Two run-ins in one day? Coincidence or Fate?_ After he rolls the chances around in his head, he dismisses them. _Nah, that’s not possible._

With Vandar sitting in his lap, the Mandalorian’s brain travels to Cass’ employer, Nader. He remembers Talia wanting to think after the Minister’s visit, which is why she seemed so distracted and asked him if the baby could stay in his room for the night. But there is no way she would need this lengthy amount of time to examine Nader’s visit and character. So, he reviews yesterday evening’s meeting with a fine-toothed comb, trying to see if he missed anything like double-meanings or subtle tones and looks. Yet after his taxi passes by three neighborhoods, he comes up empty.

He then recalls that instance on Cholganna when Talia had disappeared on him for a while. She was gone for over five hours—yeah, he has not forgotten about that. Perhaps she was weighing out her options instead of exploring the jungle. But then, why not say that? She claimed she got lost in the past, so was that a hint to the memory sickness plaguing her family? Does she have it? And has she been hiding it from everyone, including him?

 _Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mando,_ he thinks. _Maybe she just wants some space. Or she really does get lost in her work._ But since she is an advisor now, he expects her workload would have decreased considerably, right? He shakes his head. _What do I know about politics anyways?_

With a frustrated huff, he pushes aside his thoughts. He is sure she will come out when he and the kid get back to the Manor. And as of right now, there is no point in worrying about her while he pays Nazim a quick visit.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Three hours later . . ._

It is past dinner time back at Dewan Manor. While Vandar is taking nap after a hearty meal, the Mandalorian sits on the couch in his suite’s lounge watching his charge. He jiggles his knee but stops once he realizes that he is doing it. According to his calculations, Talia has been in her room for over ten hours now. His inner clock has been keeping track, even while he and Vandar were at Nazim’s.

When they had arrived at Boma’s Brews, it was Mila who was standing behind the bar, attending to patrons. She had directed him to her husband’s whereabouts, and the Mandalorian found him in a house behind the cantina, playing with his youngest daughter. Nazim had been good company for the next couple of hours while Vandar and Luna rolled a ball to one another in the backyard despite the overcast sky. Since the Mandalorian had only paid the bar owner a visit as a way of a distraction, he found it slightly difficult to listen to the latest neighborhood gossip from Nazim who chattered away like he had all the time in the world. Thankfully, he did not notice the mechanical hums and nods thrown his way at the appropriate moments.

A loud beeping from R6 breaks into his thoughts. The Mandalorian has half a mind to shut the door to his room, but when he hears more beeping followed by whistling and chirping that sound like scolding, he decides to investigate. After all, he has nothing better to do right now.

He strides down the dark hallway of the West Wing, the dim light coming from the courtyard drawing him forward. It had sprinkled when he and Vandar returned to the Manor, but when he reaches the balcony, he notices a steady rainfall pelting the roof. With every water droplet that hits the force field protecting the courtyard, its transparent surface shimmers, creating shadowy waves across the sandstone floor.

Hearing the rain bombard the Manor is soothing, but the soft sound is drowned out by the conversation the Mandalorian witnesses between RUBY and R6. The two droids are walking past the weeping water fountain and are heading for the East Wing’s staircase.

“Mistress Talia has never retreated to her room for this long, R6,” RUBY tells the trash-compactor. “I am quite concerned for her well-being. Why aren’t you?”

Ruining the calming atmosphere of the deserted Manor, R6 tweets and beeps loudly, apparently arguing back. Like always, its garbled noises and high-pitched whistles begin to annoy the Mandalorian.

“Hey, RUBY,” he interrupts them. Both droids stop and swivel their metal bodies in his direction. “What’s the longest time Talia’s been in her room?”

“It has been approximately twelve hours, Master Traxell,” the protocol droid replies quietly.

As his phantom-like voice echoes across the house, the man wonders why RUBY’s voice today is making the Manor feel so hollow. But he ignores the sensation for now and asks, “How long exactly has she been in her room?”

“Since you have been up, sir? It has been ten hours, forty-two minutes, and five seconds,” RUBY rattles off.

The sum is similar to his, and since Talia has closed herself off in her room for a longer period in the past, he feels his unease settle down. He nods at the droids and states, “Then there shouldn’t be anything to worry about.”

He is about to walk away and go back to his suite when RUBY calls out, “But there is, Master Traxell.” The Mandalorian glances over his shoulder, and the red-plated butler explains, “Ever since Mistress Talia has entered her room last night, she has not emerged for eighteen hours, fifty-three minutes, and sixteen seconds.”

 _Okay, that’s not good_ , he thinks to himself. A plan formulates in his mind, and before he knows it, he is heading towards the entertainment room.

“RUBY,” he firmly says, “make sure Solaria has a hot meal waiting for Talia in the dining room.”

While he passes through the upstairs room, he hears the droid reply, “Yes, sir. But why? It is quite clear that Mistress Talia isn’t coming out.”

The Mandalorian reaches the East Wing. Still on the move, he answers, “She will. Even if I have to kick down her door and drag her out myself.”

Before he can enter the hallway leading to her room, R6’s body tittering on the sandstone floor and furious whistling stop him.

“Master Traxell, forgive me,” RUBY begins, “but R6 says you shouldn’t bother Lady Talia. He strongly claims that she wouldn’t want that at all.”

“I doubt she’d want all of you guys to keep on worrying about her,” he states in his bounty hunter tone, the same one that leaves no room for argument.

“I agree, sir. However, R6 insists that you need to leave her alone and that you are intruding.” RUBY then turns to the smaller droid and scolds it. “Really, R6, is that any way to talk to a—”

“If R6 tells me what to do again,” the Mandalorian growls through clenched teeth, “then I’ll blow him into a literal bucket of bolts.”

With that, he turns on his heel and marches for Talia’s room. Having the final word sends a satisfactory sensation through his blood, and he feels his chest puff up. If Kuiil was here and had given the droids that warning, he is certain the Ugnaught would have said, ‘I have spoken,’ before stalking away. He can now see why Kuiil ended most statements with that phrase.

He soon reaches the door to his host’s room and knocks on it. When he receives no reply, he does it again and calls out, “Talia, you okay in there?”

Silence.

“The droids and Vandar are worried about you,” he tries but is greeted with more silence. Determined, he knocks on her door for the second time as he warns, “If you don’t come out, I’m going in.”

At first, the only sound he hears is the rain hitting the covered rooftop, but then his ears pick up a small thud coming from her room. Then he hears another, followed by another. The muffled noises remind him of heavy footsteps marching on the ground.

_Well, at least she’s alive._

After the thuds subside, he takes in a deep breath, steeling himself for when he ultimately invades Talia’s privacy. A slow heartbeat passes, and he knocks again before declaring, “I’m coming in.”

He glances at the panel beside her door and decides to give it a try. When he pushes a button to grant him access, he does not expect the door to slide open and reveal a dark room—which is why his eyes widen when it does. The realization that Talia’s suite had never been physically barred from anyone this entire time hits him like a bucket of cold water. And here he was thinking that she locked herself up in her room all day. She must have programmed her droids extremely well for them not to barge in after she had instructed them to give her some privacy.

With tense muscles and cautious steps, the Mandalorian enters the room. Like he observed before, it is much darker than he expected. A few rays of gray light peek through thick curtains, showing him the layout of the suite and furniture. His eyes adjust after a few seconds, and he is stunned by how bare and simple the room is. Unlike his or the other guest quarters, there are no paintings or knickknacks or sculptures adorning the suite. It does not have personal touches gracing it, nor does the atmosphere emanate a welcoming feeling. It is simply a bedroom used for sleeping and nothing more.

There is a bed off to his right. It is neatly made and does not look as if it has been slept in at all. He spies a closet and a few pieces of furniture such as a dresser, trunk, desk, and chair. The bedroom is smaller than his, and he then realizes that this was actually designed to be the suite’s lounge area. The room on his left, which is currently closed off by a thick wall of curtains, was supposed to be the bedroom, but Talia had switched them around. Why would she do that?

Her “lounge” is hidden from his view, but there is a crack in the curtains. As he softly walks over to it, he hears her door swoosh close behind him. He sees blue light streaming through the gap in the curtains. The light moves and swirls, and when he peeks inside, he identifies various holograms floating in the dark room. And from what he can see, the lounge is almost as bare and impersonal as Talia’s bedroom.

Due to his limited vision, he is unable to spot his host, so he parts the thick curtains with his gloved hands. A soft scent of sweet cream and faint lemons greets his nostrils, and his eyes dart across the lounge, trying to take in the glowing holograms.

In the middle of the surprisingly cold room, he spots Talia, dressed in white. Her back is to him as she rises to her feet. He had been distracted by her bare lounge and blue holograms that he had not been paying too much attention to her. In fact, he is not sure if she was lying on the floor and curled up in a fetal position, kneeling on the thick carpet beneath her, or even sitting down. He just catches her standing up, her legs a little wobbly as they support her.

A shawl had been wrapped around her shoulders. It is the color of ebony with bronze trim bordering all around it in a regal design. Like smooth oil, the shawl trickles to the floor, which causes his eyes to look downward. He notices that her feet are bare and that a pillow and her Nexu pelt had been surrounding Talia as if they had joined forces to form a cozy nest to keep her warm and comfortable.

As his friend slowly turns around to face him, the Mandalorian makes a quick note of the lounge. He spies a refresher room in one corner, heavily curtained windows on his right with a purple settee bench stationed against them, a walk-in closet, and a table pushed into another corner. The walls are completely bare while the floor has datapads, books, hologram devices, papers, and food ration containers and wrappers scattered everywhere. Holograms originating from her datapads, hand-held devices, and the projectors embedded in the ceiling fill up the space between, hovering in mid-air like ghosts as they encircle Talia.

When she faces him, he notices one hologram flicker off. Since she was blocking his view, he had only caught a glimpse of a person in thick robes with long, billowy sleeves and a hood.

“Talia?” he hesitantly asks in a quiet voice. He notices dark circles under her eyes, and it looks as if her tanned skin is just a couple of shades paler than normal. “You okay?”

She sniffs, and it sounds like she had been crying at some point. Her accent is thick and garbled when she asks, “W-what time is it?”

“Around seven in the evening,” he gently replies, taking a step forward. “You’ve been in here for hours.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a few holographic planets swirling in the sweet-scented air. Their colored surfaces reveal sapphire oceans, bleak deserts, and orange forests.

“I’m s-sorry,” she says, her voice shaky. She clears her throat and pats her upper chest with a hand, as if that will help her speak better. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

He watches her drop her hand and smooth out her white clothes, trying to look presentable. Talia is dressed in a tunic with see-through sleeves that reach past her elbows. The bodice is made of thicker material with buttons lining from halfway up her stomach to her round collar. The hemline of her tunic stops at her shins, and there is a slit in the middle. Like her sleeves, the skirt-like section of her tunic is transparent, revealing her midriff and a pair of white trousers settled low on her thin waist.

Tearing his eyes away from her exposed skin, he notices that Talia’s hair is loosely braided, nearly unraveled. Wisps of dark locks cling to her diamond-shaped face, and he realizes that her cheeks are damp. Her usual sincere gaze is watery, reflecting the glow from her holograms. He would be an idiot not to notice that she is sad and tired, and from the way she slowly raises her puffy eyes at him, he thinks she looks almost . . . frail.

_What in the name of Mandalore happened to you?_

“I, um,” she stutters, making him realize that he had said his question out loud. “It’s just . . . I lost track of the time.”

 _Is she really going to use that same excuse with me again?_ he wonders to himself, feeling resigned rather than annoyed.

A heavy sigh escapes Talia before she explains, “You see . . . today’s the anniversary of my . . . m-my uncle’s death.”

Understanding dawns on him like thunder in a storm, and he does not blame her at all for wanting to be alone. From what he has learned, Talia and her uncle Zeb had formed a special bond—especially since they both had fought during the Clone War. He knows that the relationships forged in battle are not only unique but are also painful to cope with when a friend dies. Zeb had been murdered by Imperial soldiers because of the gift he had shared with Vandar. He remembers that Talia said her uncle was incredible with his telekinetic ability, but from past conversations, the Mandalorian knows how acutely she has felt Zeb’s loss. She must have been around eleven or twelve when he was killed.

 _I can’t believe she’s still mourning him like this,_ he wonders to himself. _It’s been what? Thirty years?_

He does not mean to be callous about such a sensitive topic, but should not Talia have, well, moved on by now? Though he knows only too well that a loved one’s death is something that can haunt people for the rest of their lives, he figures that—with the amount of time since Zeb’s death—Talia should be coping with this tragedy much better than she is at the moment. But then . . . who is he to criticize? After all, _he_ still has not come to terms with his parents’ deaths, nor his buir’s. He carries their losses with him; they are his ghosts visiting him whenever he has too much time on his hands. It seems that Talia, like him, has a difficult time in letting people go.

“I know what you’re thinking,” a soft accent breaks into his thoughts.

Talia, garbed in white, reminds him of an apparition as she soundlessly steps around her discarded belongings. Her gaze is focused on a small hologram of her and Ryk’ken dressed in Mandalorian armor. With an arm around each other’s shoulders, they are helmetless, laughing about something. A sad smile graces her lips as she takes in the captured memory before she glances at him over her shoulder, the glowing image painting half of her face in a bluish light.

“Zeb’s been gone for thirty years,” she states, her tone neutral. “Believe me when I say that I’ve done a lot of healing. It’s just that . . .” She drops her gaze. “Sometimes I just miss him so much on this day. He was . . . he was more of a father to me than my own father was. And the idea of seeing Vandar with Zeb’s gift was too much for me.” Her voice cracks, and he moves his eyes back onto the smiling Talia in the hologram. He hears her clear her throat before admitting, “It just brought back some memories. Happy . . . and sad.”

Silence engulfs the room, and the Mandalorian does not know what to say. He is the worst person to offer any kind of comfort. Talia had needed time to mourn Zeb today—he gets that. But he suddenly feels like a disrespectful intruder interrupting her privacy. His mind scrambles for something to break the stillness in the room. Then, he remembers a phrase his buir had told him.

Moving closer to his friend, he lays a gentle hand on her shoulder and is startled that he can feel how chilled her body is even through his gloves. But he is relieved she relaxes underneath his touch. Her arm is mere inches away from the cold Beskar of his chest-plate as he murmurs, “ _Mando’ad draar digu_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: Man-DOH-ad drahr dee-GOO; translation: “A Mandalorian never forgets.”)_

Instead of nodding in agreement or even reaching for his hand, Talia practically scoffs at the old phrase. Her tone is sprinkled with bitterness when she says, “Sometimes I think I should forget.” She gently pulls away from his hold and relocates to the middle of the room again. Her profile is to him as she settles on the floor, murmuring, “The past has too much of a hold on me on days like this.”

While she wraps her ebony shawl around her cool shoulders, he simply stands there, glued to the carpet. “I get that,” he confides in her, but for some reason, it sounds pathetic in his own ears.

Knowing that she should not be alone for the next several minutes, he decides to stay in her lounge. With nothing else to occupy him, he strolls around the room and studies the numerous holograms, careful not to step on the items scattered across the floor.

He notices a projection of an Imperial storm-trooper armed with a large blaster rifle. Surprised that his host would have this, he moves closer to it. Upon further inspection, he realizes that the soldier is actually a Republic Clone Trooper, and he glances at Talia, silently wondering who the solider is. When he finds her staring at a hologram displaying the Japrael System with all its moons and planets in orbit, he decides not to ask her right now. Instead, he moves on to the next projection, which is a second wartime memory.

The blue footage is centered on a squad of clones dramatically posing for the hologram recording. Some have removed their helmets, and others are showing off their weapons and gadgets with pride. They are grinning at each other, their faces the same, though all of them have different haircuts. And standing in the center is a ten-year-old Talia wearing a rain-poncho. Despite the circumstances, she looks quite happy being sandwiched between a clone with a commander’s pauldron and another squad member armed with a huge blaster rifle.

The image makes the corner of his lips lift into a half-smile. Before the Empire, before the stormtroopers, these clones were Republic soldiers. They were Talia’s friends and comrades-in-arms, and even after all these years, she has not forgotten about them.

His eyes roam to the next hologram flickering with fast-moving figures. He immediately recognizes Talia’s clone trooper squad and watches them take down a Separatist Spider-droid. The machine crawling on four legs is overtaken by the clones over and over again in an endless, victorious loop, and there, right in front of the hologram, is Talia still covered in a poncho. She is pointing at the clones’ flawless formation with a proud smile on her diamond-shaped face.

“Lightning Squad,” he hears her say.

When he turns to her, he sees that she had scooted her body around and has been watching him for who knows how long.

“One of the best trained squads in the entire Republic army,” Talia reveals with a fond half-smile. “They were so fast in carrying out their orders. Blink, and their weapons would be pointing straight at you.”

“Where is this?” he asks, jerking his thumb at the hologram of the clones destroying the Spider-droid.

“Togoria.” Her eyes survey the image as it repeats its footage. “The Togorian people are feline warriors, and they have a strict code of honor. But they had joined the Separatists.”

“So, what was the Republic doing there?”

“A ship crash-landed on the planet, and war broke out. We . . . we lost that battle.” She does not say anything after this, and he is on the verge of asking her about the clone troopers when she adds, “The Togorians are a stubborn people, and they hate outsiders. But I have to admit that I’ve never known another culture more honorable, besides my own. I guess that’s why the Togorians I met liked me.”

“Oh?”

Her smile widens ever so slightly when she says, “Their people deeply respect Mandalorians.”

He nods at her, a smirk playing on his lips. “Isn’t that planet in the Mid-Rim? It’s a long way from Onderon. What were you and your uncle doing there?”

“The war sucked us in,” she answers with a shrug. “We got moved from one planet to another. And that’s how we joined up with Lightning Squad.”

Glad that she is starting to sound like her normal self, sharing with him without any signs of tears, he decides to risk getting her out of her room.

“Come on.” He points to the door with his head. “I think you should probably eat something. Besides rations.” He extends a hand to her and adds, “Plus, the kid’s been worried. So have your droids.”

At his offer, she shakes her head. Her loose braid completely unravels by the movement, and he feels his hope sink like an anvil dropped in the ocean.

“I’m just not up to it, Ordo,” she murmurs, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I’ll be better tomorrow.”

His mind searches for a compromise. Obviously, she would prefer to remain in her crypt-like room, keeping company with her blue ghosts and phantom memories for the rest of the night. But she needs to eat, and something tells him that, if he has food sent up here, she may not touch it.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” he states, his gravelly voice firm. “If you stay in here and eat, then I won’t haul you downstairs.”

Despite the fact that the cold room is growing darker due to the fading sunlight outside, he can still see Talia cock a dark eyebrow at him. He thinks amusement flashes across her face when she says, “I would really like to see you try to come through on your threat, Ordo.”

“It isn’t a threat, Kex. It’s a promise.”

As she considers it, his gaze roams over her head and lands on a colored hologram of a handsome couple. The man is tall with light skin, brown hair, and dark eyes, and he is wearing Mandalorian armor. He has his head tilted down, looking at the woman holding onto the crook of his elbow. A slight smile is on his lips, and the sign of affection is returned three times by his lovely companion who is grinning up at him. The woman looks frail yet kind with her dark hair, curvy figure, and piercing blue eyes. It takes him a moment to realize that he is staring at Tezok Kex and Galia Dewan—Talia’s parents.

“Fine,” his host breathes out, tearing his attention back to her.

The annoyed glare sent his way is almost as dark as her shawl, but he simply nods at her, relieved that she is going to make this easier for him. He turns around and exits her lounge. His legs carry him to the comms panel near the door, and when he reaches it, he presses a button that will allow him to speak to RUBY.

“RUBY, you there?” he asks.

 _“Yes, Master Traxell,”_ comes a whispered answer.

“Change of plans. Bring Talia’s food up to her room, okay? She’s going to eat in here.”

 _“Very good, sir,”_ RUBY says with excitement. _“Madam Solaria has just informed me that she will need a few more minutes until the meal is ready, so I will deliver a tea tray to Mistress Talia.”_

“That’s fine. Traxell out,” the Mandalorian replies. He decides to make sure the door is left open for the droid before returning to his friend.

When he re-enters the lounge, he automatically notices that Talia is gone. He scans the room, his eyes seeing past the holograms. After a few moments, he hears water running, alerting him of her presence in the refresher room. Figuring that she is washing her face from her dried-up tears, he continues to acquaint himself with her holograms as they dance in the dark room like memories trapped in time.

There are more holograms of planets he cannot recognize just by looking at their surfaces. One has red fog swirling across the small sphere while another is peppered with various mountain ranges. He stands in front of a planet with emerald jungles and white-sand beaches surrounded by oceans, and he wonders if these are places that Talia had been to or ones she wishes to visit at some point.

A slow-moving projection grabs his attention, so he walks over to it. Three teen figures are featured in it: two girls and a boy, all armed with melees. He sees a seventeen-year-old Talia, her weapon in hand, fending off an attack by a younger version of Ryk’ken. Their faces are set in concentration, but when the second girl joins the training session, they both grin and turn on her.

Their three melees cross blades, giving him a chance to survey the newcomer. It is a dark-skinned girl who resembles Ryk’ken, and he realizes that she must be his sister, Zaerdra. Talia had said the girls were best friends, just like their fathers were.

Hologram-Zaerdra has thick dreadlocks with metal beads decorating her black hair. From what he remembers of Ryk’ken’s file, she is his older sibling. Her eyes are also green but are a darker shade than her brother’s.

In the slow-moving hologram, he notices Zaerdra and Talia exchange knowing glances, and they both move their legs to kick Ryk’ken to the floor. Their grins are filled with mischief and comradery as they watch Ryk’ken slowly fall flat on his back. The Mandalorian smirks at the stunt. He studies the girls while they give each other a side-hug in victory, and he feels a prick of sadness when he also remembers that Zaerdra had left Onderon to join Death Watch. After years of being away, she had finally returned but was, according to Talia, not the same person she had once been. To help her forget her experiences, Zaerdra grew addicted to spice, an addiction that had taken her life.

Turning away from the melee trio as the hologram resets, he focuses on a projection of an old man with a bald head and a long, pointy white beard. He recognizes him as King Ramsis Dendup, Talia’s maternal great-grandfather. The end of Ramsis’ rule over Onderon had been topped with the conflict of the Clone War. While deciding whom his planet should support, the Republic or the Separatists, Ramsis had attempted to choose a neutral stance so he could protect his people from war. However, his decision had taken too long, and behind-the-scenes, he was removed from power and replaced by a puppet monarch.

 _So, you’re the king who couldn’t make up his mind,_ the Mandalorian thinks, surveying Ramsis with a critical eye. The old man had retired due to the same memory illness that has been plaguing his granddaughter, Thea.

From the holograms, it appears that Talia’s past has been filled with strange planets and happy faces. But the Mandalorian shakes his head at the rough life he knows that she had. His friend has been through so much, and he wonders how she has survived without having a mental breakdown. How is she still alive and fighting through it all? Well, if her frailty today has shown him anything, it is that she had retired at just the right time.

“During the war, he was waiting for me every day to come home,” Talia’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees her standing outside her refresher room. Her gaze is focused on her great-grandfather. He takes in her diamond-shaped face, clean and fresh, and he notes that she had re-styled her hair in a tighter braid. Hanging from the crooks of her elbows is her ebony shawl.

“Were you close?” he asks her, tilting his head towards Ramsis.

“A little,” she admits as she joins him. “He told me that he missed me so much when I was away. He wanted me to come back. It just took some time.”

She turns away from the hologram, and he watches her pick up a data-pad projecting a young man around twenty-five dressed as an Onderonian guard. Unlike most of the holograms floating in the room, this one is not portrayed in the usual bluish tint. The young man has brown hair, dark blue eyes, and fair skin. His high-cheekbones widen his ambitious smile, and both features enhance his handsome face. The Mandalorian would be shocked to learn if the gray armor and military clothes had not caught the attention of many feminine eyes.

Before he can ask Talia who the young man is, she switches off the hologram. She presses the data-pad to her chest and turns her back to him. And that is the moment when RUBY interrupts them. Then, much to his surprise, R6 rolls in right behind the protocol droid.

_How the hell did that tin-can get up the stairs?_

“Mistress Talia!” RUBY declares. The silver tray in his hands trembles due to his excitement, and this causes the tea things balanced on it to rattle. “How good it is to see you! I was quite worried about you.” RUBY sets the tray on the side-table while R6 whirs and beeps at Talia in a surprisingly quiet tone.

“Thank you. Both of you,” she says to them.

As RUBY prepares Talia a cup of tea, he reports, “Madam Solaria is warming up a meal for you, my Lady. She suggests a light soup from her home city.”

“Thank her for me. It sounds lovely,” she replies, setting down her data-pad on the table.

“It should be ready soon, my Lady. But I thought you would prefer some shig while you waited.”

RUBY offers her a steaming cup of tea to which Talia accepts with a tired smile. While she takes a sip, the Mandalorian decides to settle on top of the purple settee bench stationed in front of the heavily curtained windows. The cushioned furniture is plush and comfortable, but its appeal is diminished by R6’s whistling and beeping.

“I appreciate your looking out of me,” Talia says to her astrodroid. “But Traxell was all right in getting me. Has anyone from the palace tried to contact me?”

As R6 gives her a report in that nonsense language, RUBY starts picking up the papers and books scattered across the floor. Talia sits back on the carpet, her shawl shimmering from the holograms’ illuminations, and the Mandalorian notices that she is not her graceful self as she balances the cup of shig in her hand.

Though the visit to her refresher seems to have awakened her, Talia still looks paler than usual—probably from lack of real food since rations can only do so much. Her eyes are no longer watery nor puffy, but he sees sadness and regret hovering in the back of her brown orbs. He notes that her voice is quieter than normal, and he cannot detect the rolling Onderonian accent in her words as she asks R6 questions.

After the mechanical nuisance finishes its report, Talia thanks it and waves R6 away in a friendly dismissive gesture. Thankfully, the droid listens to her without argument and exits the suite. Meanwhile, RUBY places the papers and books he had collected somewhere in the next room before also leaving. More than likely, the red-plated butler is going to fetch Talia’s food tray.

For a minute, silence floats in the cool air until it is broken by Talia as her teacup clinks against its saucer. She stands up and re-fills her cup but says nothing.

“Wanna talk about your uncle?” he offers, trying to keep his voice kind.

After several seconds, he hears her say, “Yes. And no.”

His eyes veer to another hologram of Talia’s parents. While Tezok is standing behind his wife, Galia is holding a toddler version of Talia in her lap. He has to admit that his friend was an adorable baby.

“Someone once told me,” he shares, “there comes a time when you gotta stop yourself from reminiscing about the people and the memories that hurt you. You just have to move on.”

“Wise words.” Talia glances his way, a dark eyebrow quirked at him. “But something tells me you haven’t done that yourself.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” he answers with a shrug.

Talia turns away from him, her long braid swaying down her back. After taking a sip of her tea, he hears her admit, “Staying on Onderon doesn’t help me.”

“Too many memories of Zeb here?”

“No.” She pauses. “I have what they call ‘survivor’s guilt.’ I’ve . . . I’ve lost a lot of people because I put my planet first.” She swivels herself around and begins to turn off the holograms emitting from her data-pads one by one. “It’s hard to focus on the good that I helped create when I just keep thinking about all the bad consequences that followed and the lives that were taken.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” he states. “Don’t see it as your fault, Kex. It’s Fate’s.”

She stops, four data-pads gathered in her arms. When she looks at him, he can see doubt wrestling its way onto her face. “Maybe,” she whispers, more to herself than to him.

Once all of hologram-emitting data-pads are off and collected, she stacks them in a pile next to the settee he is sitting on. The room is much darker, so Talia switches on the lights in the lounge, but she leaves them on a low setting. Still, some of the holograms coming from the ceiling projectors and her hand-held devices on the floor are on.

“Holograms: off,” she instructs in an authoritative voice, and the ceiling projectors shut down, their bluish figures melting into the darkness.

Instead of terminating the projections from the hand-held devices, Talia leaves them alone. He counts four of them, and he notices that these blue-lit memories feature her family. There is one with her parents in a cityscape, and since Talia looks to be around seven-years-old, he figures that this recording was taken somewhere on Coruscant while she was enrolled in some fancy, aristocratic school.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Talia sitting back on the carpeted floor, right the middle of the room. Her discarded pillow and black-striped Nexu fur surround her, and he has a feeling she may have slept there all night.

“Get any sleep?” he asks her, but from the dark circles under her eyes, he already knows the answer.

“Not really,” she admits. “I was working on something for the King late last night. And a little bit this morning.”

“Well, you need to take a break,” he tells her, wincing that his tone sounds like he had just given her an order. To soften his words, he adds, “I’ve seen lizard-monkeys with more fight in them.”

This affects her in the way he had wanted, for Talia chuckles. It reminds him of a bubbling brook melting from the harsh mountain snows as it gurgles over rocks and reeds.

“Thanks for the compliment, Ordo. But what I need is a vacation. A long one,” she sighs.

“You’ve been strong, serving your homeworld. Sometimes being strong is our only option. But you can’t keep on going like that,” he warns. “It’ll kill you.”

“I know,” she murmurs, dropping her gaze to her lap. Her slim fingers begin to play with the end of her ebony shawl. “And to be honest, I’m tired of fighting. For once,” she whispers to herself, “I want to be fought _for_.”

As he digests her words, RUBY returns with a food tray. A steaming bowl of Solarian soup, a spoon, a plate of bread, and a cloth napkin have been carefully arranged on it. RUBY walks around the lounge to stand in front of Talia. Keeping his balance, he leans forward and hands it to her.

“Is there anything else, my Lady?” he asks once the tray is safe in her grasp.

“No, RUBY. Send my compliments to Solaria for me?”

RUBY assures her that it will be done before he exits the room, his metal feet shuffling down the hallway. Talia sets the tray on top of her pillow and then crosses her legs underneath her. As she prepares to eat, the Mandalorian thinks about what she had said before RUBY had interrupted them.

 _“I’m tired of fighting. For once, I want to be fought_ for _.”_

His gaze shifts over to the hologram featuring the royal family. Thea is sitting on her throne, with Kavan standing on her right. Their children are gathered around them, fidgeting on the stairs leading to the throne. Another hologram features Talia surrounded by Thea’s children.

She has striven to keep her loved ones safe and done her best to make sure that Thea remained Queen of Onderon. For the majority of her life, Talia has put them first and had literally fought for her planet’s freedom when the Empire crumbled five years ago. Her plea, whispered into the cool air, had not only proved to him that she is exhausted, but it had also revealed how lonely she is. Though a peacekeeper, she longs to be taken care of, to be put first, probably for once in her life. And he pities her for that.

“Where’s Vandar?” she asks him. Her voice is soft, but he had been so deep into his thoughts that it almost startles him.

“Sleeping,” he says, clearing his throat. “I took him out the of house a couple of times today. He kept trying to get into your room.”

Talia simply nods and does not say anything more. As she returns her attention back to her food, he stares at a hologram of her and her father.

In this frozen memory, the two of them are standing side by side like soldiers, their helmets tucked to their sides. Tezok looks to be around forty while Talia is roughly thirteen, maybe fourteen. They are both wearing Mandalorian armor, but the hologram is blue, preventing him from identifying the colors painted on the Beskar. Tezok, with his lighter—probably graying—hair and sharp jaw, does not appear to be the fatherly type. Though his dark eyes match Talia’s, the Mandalorian notices the absence of compassion that shimmers in his daughter’s gaze. He can feel his blood begin to simmer as he continues to study the man, the father who had abandoned a fourteen-year-old girl. The husband who had loved his wife more than his child.

He tears his eyes away from the projection before he says something disrespectful right in front of Talia. He focuses his attention back on her and is filled with a sense of satisfaction that she is still eating her soup and bread. For a moment, he thinks about leaving her alone. She seems to be in somewhat better spirits. Besides, he cannot think of anything else to say or do.

“I was thinking,” she begins, breaking the silence, “about why you’re here on Onderon. You know, your debt.” When she puts her spoon down and glances at him, he nods at her. Taking this as encouragement, she continues, “I have an idea on how to help settle it.”

He sits up straighter on the purple settee. “I’m listening.”

Though she has her eyes steadily fixed on his visor, he can see her nervously run her teeth over her lower lip. “Would you mind it if I, uh . . . if I traveled with you?”

He blinks at her. “With me?”

“And Vandar of course,” she adds.

His mind goes blank, and all he can do is stare at her as she sits across from him on the floor, dressed in white and black while blue holograms flicker around her. The ghost-like figures cast their luminescent glow onto her tanned skin, and he can see their reflection lighting up her eyes and casting shadows on her face.

As he tries to think of something to say, she explains, “I want to leave Onderon, and you’re not going to stay here forever, so you’re probably going to go back to bounty hunting. I just figured you’ll need someone to keep an eye on Vandar. And I can do that for you. I can watch him while you’re doing a job and be there for him . . .”

Her voice trails off as if she has lost her nerve, which seems uncharacteristic of her. If Talia wants something, she is not afraid to get it. So, her being nervous as she lays out this idea makes him realize just how much she wants him to say ‘yes.’

“Be there for him?” he repeats. “As what? A nanny?”

“Sure.”

“That sounds like a . . .” His brain searches for the right word. “Like a step down from what you’re used to, Kex.”

Talia shrugs her shoulders. “It’s simpler than what I’ve been doing lately. And to be honest, I relish the thought of a simpler life.”

Feeling fidgety, the Mandalorian shifts in his seat and crosses his arms. This is one of the rare times when someone has _asked_ to be a part of his crew; he can count those moments with one hand. But where will she sleep? The _Crest_ is just perfect for him and hardly anyone else—and the baby does not count since he is so small.

Although the Mandalorian is all too aware that Talia is handy in a fight if things get ugly, she has not hidden the fact that she disapproves of bounty hunting. Yet he knows that she can take care of herself and that she has been very useful where the kid is concerned. But having her with them for who knows how long? He will not be able to take his helmet off to eat as much as he would like, not with her always onboard.

“I know I’m inviting myself onto your ship, but you don’t have to worry about me,” she assures him. Her elegant accent is laced with excitement, and he notices that there is more energy in her eyes than he has seen today. “I can handle myself, and I can provide for my own needs.”

“Talia, I don’t know . . .”

The woman sets her food tray aside, and in the blink of an eye, she is sitting next to him on the settee, perhaps just a little too close in his opinion. A light wave of sweet cream and mild lemons drifts to his nostrils, and he scoots over to increase the small space between them. He cranes his neck to look at her and finds a solemn expression etched on her face.

“I won’t interfere with your job,” she tells him. “And I won’t judge it or you. I promise.”

Her eyes are sincere, like they always seem to be. They search his helmet as if she will find some kind of clue as to what is running through his brain. Though he actually likes the idea of having someone he trusts babysit Vandar, he is still not sure if this proposal of hers will work. She will not be living in the lap of luxury like she has for most of her life. Yet, from the looks of her barren room, he figures delving into a rough lifestyle is probably the one thing she misses about the war.

“For how long?” he asks, curious. “My life’s not easy.”

“But it’s freedom, Ordo.”

There is a sense of longing painting her voice, and he feels like a _shabuir_ * for wanting to say ‘no,’ for denying her this opportunity.

 _(_ * _pronounced: SHAH-boo-EER; meaning: extreme insult, “jerk” but much stronger)_

“How about,” she slowly offers, “we give it a couple of months and see if it works out?”

Not being able to stop himself, he asks, “And if it doesn’t?”

Again, Talia shrugs. “Then I guess we’ll just have to figure out another way to settle your debt.” She playfully bumps shoulders with him then returns to her little Nexu pelt-nest on the floor, but she does not continue eating her meal.

“Let me think about it, okay?” he says, wincing at how snappy he sounds. But then, why should he feel guilty for that? She just sprang this bizarre idea on him out of nowhere.

He sneaks a glance at Talia, wondering if she noticed his tone. If she did, she does not show it. Instead, hope shines in her dark eyes, and she suddenly looks years younger, reminding him of the smiling Talia he had seen in the holograms.

“Take all the time you need, my _burc’ya_ *,” she replies. A soft smile plays on her lips before she picks up her spoon and resumes eating her Solarian soup.

 _(_ * _pronounced: BOOR-sha; translation: “friend”)_

* * *

Talia's Attire:


	8. Pretty but Powerful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay in posting. My goal is to get these chapters up by Friday, but something always gets in the way. Enjoy!

Chapter VIII: Pretty but Powerful

The sun is barely rising in the East, making the sky blush a deep orange. A cool wind blows through the neighborhood and lifts up the Mandalorian’s gray cloak from behind him. Goosebumps rise across his arms as he stalks down a dark alleyway, but it is not from the wind. He has not been able to shake this feeling that, only a little while ago, he had been followed.

He had woken up in the wee hours of the morning with the intent to explore an area two districts west of Dewan Manor. As he was familiarizing himself with an Ithorian neighborhood, his gut twisted and put his muscles on high-alert. Like a thief in the night, he melted into the shadows of the Onderonian buildings and re-traced his steps as quietly as he could. With a gloved hand on his holstered pistol, he tried to find out if his instinct was correct, if someone really was tailing him. But after twenty minutes of going in circles, hoping to catch his potential stalker, his attempt had proved fruitless. Either his instincts were acting a little paranoid or whoever was truly following him was good at outmaneuvering him.

Returning to the Manor had taken longer than he wanted since he did not like the idea of leading an uninvited guest back with him. His brain argued that there was no reason why anyone would stalk him. No one from the Guild could have found out that he was here, and even if a bounty hunter had discovered his and the child’s location, no Guild member would really risk entering a planet that practically banded people from his line of work. Perhaps someone was thinking he could be their next mug-victim. Or maybe his gut was just anxious since he had not seen any action in nearly three weeks. After all, he was still a Mandalorian—people from his Creed were taught to keep busy.

As a precaution, he had slipped into a marketplace near his location, knowing that some business owners and delivery employees were early risers. He joined their ranks as they went about their duties, and a sense of relief filled him when he came across a group of Mandalorian militia. They had just finished a night shift at one of their outposts and welcomed him when he asked if he could walk with them for a little bit. After a mile or so in their company, his gut relaxed, but he still checked his surroundings.

At dawn, Dewan Manor is in his sight. Still watching his back and keeping to the shadows, he slips into the house through the back door. Though his instincts had calmed down, he hates not knowing if he really was being followed.

He strides past the courtyard’s garden and water fountain. A figure above catches his eye, and when he tilts his head upward, he spies Talia leisurely pacing along the rooftop’s walkway.

Curious as to why she is up at the crack of dawn, he turns around and marches to the back of the house again. Flanking each side of the door that he had just entered are two winding staircases leading to the roof. Quietly, he ascends one of the narrow passages. When he reaches the top, he comes across a trapdoor. He opens it and closes it behind him once his feet are firmly planted on the roof’s walkway.

He notices Talia is standing on the southeast corner of the roof, facing the rising sun. As he takes his time walking closer to her, his gaze sweeps over her clothes, which, he realizes, are what she had been wearing yesterday. Her gray-patterned tunic is wrinkly, and its long-sleeves are not evenly rolled up. While one sleeve stops at her wrist, the other almost reaches her elbow. The end of her tunic, with its light pink border, is short and sways against her upper thighs. Her form-fitting, gray trousers are obviously creased, but her black boots look shiny and clean. A light pink and gray patterned shawl, which matches her tunic, is looped around her neck like a scarf. One end hangs in front of her while the other dangles behind her along with her free-flowing hair. Her dark brown locks are messy from sleeping on her pillow as they cascade down her back, and he does not see even one braid hidden in their thick depths.

“You’re up early,” Talia greets him, her gaze still focused on the sunrise.

He stands next to her, also surveying the scenery before them. “I can say the same about you,” he quips.

In his peripheral vision, he notices her head drop an inch or two. She plays with the hem of her shawl, her tanned fingers standing out against the pink fabric. “I couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs, but the lack of dark circles under her eyes tells him differently. Something else woke her up.

 _Fine,_ he thinks when she does not elaborate. _Two can play this game._

“Neither could I,” he says.

At that, she cranes her neck to look at him, and he mirrors her. “Liar,” she accuses, her accent sounding playful.

“I’m not the only one.”

Talia looks forward again, and the sun paints her diamond-shaped face in a soft glow. As he waits for her to come clean, he spots a flock of birds flying north. The neighborhood is peaceful, but he can hear an occasional speeder buzzing through the empty streets.

“Nightmare,” she finally admits, turning away.

A heartbeat passes, then another, before he replies, “Reconnaissance.”

As he swivels himself around to join her, he hears her hum in understanding. She does not add anything else, and he wonders what kind of nightmare required her to wander the rooftop for fresh air at this time.

“Vandar’s still asleep in my room,” she shares with him, her eyes sweeping across the sandstone barrier separating them from an unpleasant fall into the courtyard. “I have RUBY monitoring him.”

He nods, glad that her snarky astromech droid is not the one she left on baby-sitting duty. At least RUBY has arms.

After a while, he glances at Talia and sees that her eyes have become more focused. So, he follows her line of sight.

Down below, in the courtyard, is Gia. The handmaiden is wearing a soft yellow dress with half-sleeves and has her mousy brown hair pinned up in a messy bun. Her feet are bare as she prepares to hang up the wet laundry, and she glides across the sandstone floor, swaying her body gracefully.

The only reason why Gia is at the house so early is because Talia has a big social event tonight: a party at the Unifar Temple for Thea’s daughter, little Talia. Named after his friend and host, the young princess will be celebrating her ninth birthday. According to Gia, there is a lot of preparation that must be done in order to help Talia get ready.

About a week ago, during Nader’s visit, the Minister had wondered aloud if the Mandalorian would be attending the celebration. Since then, he had thought Nader was making small-talk and had forgotten about the event—that is, until Talia mentioned it a couple of days ago. She tried to reason with him, saying that Nader would more than likely have mentioned his presence at her house to someone, which meant the Mandalorian would have to accompany her as her bodyguard. Thankfully, he managed to convince his host to let him stay here at the Manor.

His eyes return to Gia. He notices that, after hanging up a few pieces of laundry on the clothes’ line, the handmaiden sashays behind a white sheet and peeks behind it, almost shyly. Her lips move as if she is talking to someone, and even from this distance he can make out the smile beaming on her face.

“You see it, too?” Talia asks beside him.

“What’s up with her? Is she mad?” he wonders as he watches Gia dance her way back to her basket filled with damp laundry.

“In a manner of speaking,” she replies, and he detects amusement in her accent. “But it’s much more deadly, Ordo. She’s in love.”

He almost snorts at the news, but he catches himself. _Love._ He rolls the word around in his head. It is something he has not thought about in . . . Well, ever. _I liked it better when I thought the girl was going nuts._

Stealing a peek at Talia, he notes that she is holding back a smile.

“So, that’s what’s wrong with Gia,” he says in a flat tone.

She laughs, an honest to goodness laugh. Wind blows her hair and scarf as she shakes her head in amusement. Glancing at him, she replies, “That’s one way of putting it.”

“So, you don’t mind . . . _that_?” He nods at Gia who is twirling a towel over her head before hanging it on the laundry line. She almost acts insane.

“Of course, I don’t mind,” he hears Talia chuckle. “I’m not one of those employers who doesn’t like their workers to have lovers. As long as she doesn’t invite him _here_ , it’s all right with me.”

They stand there in silence, the sun crawling higher into the sky. Gia is still glowing, and the Mandalorian feels himself wanting to stare back at the sky. Yet, as he continues to study the love-sick handmaiden, it strikes him as odd that he has not seen her behave this way before.

“How long has Gia been . . . seeing him?” (He cannot find it within himself to form the words _in love_.)

“About six months,” comes the reply. “I’ve never asked his name. There was a time when I think they stopped seeing each other. Gia was so quiet for a while. She said something about him having to move to another city. I think she said Kira City,” Talia figures aloud. “But I believe he came back when she started acting that way again. And now that I think about it, that was just a little bit after you and Vandar arrived.”

He hums, trying to recall Gia’s previous behavior. She has always seemed quiet, almost shy. Vandar likes begging her for treats, and his guardian has caught Gia sneak the baby a piece of candied fruit a few times. To be blunt, he has viewed the handmaiden as a loyal but naïve girl in her mid-twenties who wrestles with self-doubt and bashfulness. But for Gia to act this way now, he has a feeling she and her lover had more than likely spent the night together.

A soft chuckle floats on the air beside him. “Look at her,” Talia remarks, slightly waving a hand at Gia. “She’s walking on clouds, probably humming to herself. And imagining her lover’s right there, watching her every move.” She releases a quiet sigh that is filled with amusement. “So young.”

“Sounds like you’re talking from experience,” he prods. For some reason, the colored hologram of a young man wearing Onderonian armor flashes in his mind’s eye. He has not been able to ask Talia who that soldier with an ambitious smile is.

“Well, when you reach our age,” she answers, “chances are you’ve been in love at least once.”

_I haven’t. Speak for yourself, Kex._

He turns to look at her. It has not escaped him that she had skirted around his implied question. Though Talia meets his gaze, he notices that her fingers are playing with the end of her scarf again. However, he does not identify any sadness or pain swirling in her dark eyes. Just experience.

Taking a leap, he softly asks, “What was his name?”

Birds chirp on the wind, and a loud speeder scurries past the Manor. Talia’s gaze drifts away from him. Several seconds tick by, telling him that she will not answer him, especially not after she showed him her vulnerable side last week. But his friend surprises him, like she always seems to be doing.

“Surjay.”

 _Ah, so that’s why she acted the way she did when Thea mentioned him,_ he muses to himself. He had a feeling this man was very special to Talia—and Thea’s teasing confirmed it.

“Surjay Rai,” she whispers as if she is tasting the name on her tongue after years of not saying it aloud. She smiles softly to herself before adding, “You never forget your first love, do you?”

His memory conjures up a curvy, feminine figure in Mandalorian armor. The Beskar had been painted yellow and black, reminding him of a wasp. Deep scratches were embedded in the armor, boasting of its owner’s rash personality. It has been years since he even thought of her.

When his companion offers no more information, he figures he may as well do some sharing of his own—since it is only fair. So, he blurts out, “Lila.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Talia turn to him.

“I, uh, I wouldn’t say she was a first love,” he admits, feeling his throat suddenly go dry. “But she was my first . . . everything.”

Lila, from Clan Bralor. She was the last girl he had kissed and the first he had fooled around with back when they were in their late teens. He remembers callous hands blindly tearing off cold armor and worn-out tunics. Their breaths were heavy and nervous as they explored each other in a dank cave that smelled of mold and stale air. He can still feel Lila’s tight grip on his shaggy hair at the back of his neck, can taste her breath as their lips were centimeters apart. So, no. He has not forgotten his first time with a girl, even though he never did get to see her face.

“I’ll take it you didn’t remove your helmets,” Talia surmises, and he knows it is another poke at a custom that they still cannot see eye-to-eye on.

“We went around it,” he replies, crossing his arms. “A somewhat dark room was all the privacy we needed.”

Talia leans on the roof’s railing and sets a hand on top before resting her chin in her palm. “Clever, Ordo. Did she know your name?”

The words _unlike me_ hover between them, and a reckless part of him wants to say his name just so they do not have to keep on returning to this subject. But he pushes the thought aside.

“I was a kid,” he explains. “Stupid. Inexperienced.”

“So, yes.”

“Was _he_ Mandalorian-born?” he asks, trying to turn the tables on her.

“Onderonian actually.”

_That’s surprising._

“What gave Lila the honor of being your first?” she asks, and her entertained expression chases away his eyes. He looks behind her at the orange and pink sky.

“Honor really had nothing to do with it. We were doing each other a favor,” he says in a tone that sounds like he is giving a bounty report. “The Tribe encouraged it. Lila was older than me by a couple of years and had done it before. She was a daredevil and restless, and she talked me into it. That’s all.”

Talia nods. When she pushes off the roof’s barrier and begins to stroll away from him, he thinks he catches an amused smile on her lips. He shifts his feet, feeling embarrassed for some reason. Why should he be the only one in the hot-seat and not her, too?

So, he throws at her, “What was Surjay like?”

“Brave,” she calls over her shoulder without a moment’s hesitation. “And ambitious. He pretended to be tough around me. But I saw past his front.”

“He was that solider I saw in your room,” he states more than asks as he trails behind her. “The colored hologram you turned off.”

She stops walking. Her shoulder muscles look tense, and a sense of victory for taking her off-guard washes over him. The wind blows her hair while the sun paints it a lighter shade. As he catches up to her, he admits to himself that his friend looks . . . pretty this morning despite her wrinkled clothes.

“Yes, that was Surjay,” she replies, her accent sounding tight. “He was assigned to the Governor of Iziz, as a part of his security detail. I was an aide at the time.”

The information triggers his memory. Her file said that she was one of the governor’s assistants between the ages sixteen to twenty-one, but that was a large gap. She could have met Surjay anytime during that period.

“Interesting way to meet,” he casually remarks. “How old were you?”

“Nineteen,” she answers, crossing her arms defensively. “How old were you when you were with Lila?”

“Seventeen.”

“That’s young.”

“So were you,” he throws back. He squints at her and asks himself when did sharing their past love lives start turning into a competition.

Talia must have realized the same thing because she shakes her head and chuckles. A playful smile is thrown his way as she pushes some hair covering her face behind her ear. He shrugs his shoulders in return, enjoying their comradery.

“So . . . Surjay?” he muses aloud.

She nods, her back to the rising sun. Its rays catch her hair and paint a halo around her. “It was attraction at first sight,” she shares with him.

_Hmm. Not love then._

“Did Thea know about him?”

“Not right away. She suspected, but Surjay and I kept us a secret.”

Finding that unusual, he ventures, “Just wanted some privacy?”

“That, and, well . . .” her voice trails off. She unwraps her shawl from around her neck and drapes the pink and gray material around her shoulders. “My family wouldn’t have approved,” she confides. “Surjay came from nothing. He was a Kiran orphan: no family, no money, no influence. When I met him, he was just an ordinary soldier in the army.”

The sun’s glow softens her features, making her tanned skin look smooth to the touch. Her pink lips form a gentle smile, and he can detect fondness in her dark eyes. There is something about her right now that reminds him of Omera, but he cannot put his finger on it.

“But that didn’t matter to you,” he observes. “You fell in love with him anyways, huh?”

She chuckles at his assumption, and he wonders if maybe he was wrong. Until, she says, “Oh, I did much more than that, Ordo.” She smiles. “I married him.”

All he can do is blink at her. _Woah, didn’t see_ that _coming._

“Don’t look so surprised,” she teases with another laugh.

In an attempt to settle down his thoughts, he shakes his head. “But there’s no record of this.”

“You did your research on me?” she asks, arching a dark eyebrow at him.

“I would’ve been a fool not to,” he mutters before walking away from her.

His thoughts begin to run a mile a minute. Talia was—or maybe still is?— a married woman. Now, he knows why she reminded him of Omera. While she talked about Surjay, there was this . . . experience that he has only seen and not felt himself emanating from her, just like his Sorganese hostess. He has heard that marriage changes people and can have a lasting effect; he just has not seen evidence of it until this moment.

“It was a private ceremony between the two of us,” he hears Talia’s voice behind him. “Surjay had just been sworn into the Creed.”

He turns around and almost collides with her. She comes to an abrupt halt, her petite body jerking at the sudden movement, making her unbalanced. Automatically, he reaches to steady her, but she has already caught herself with ease and grace. As he drops his arms, he can feel the tips of his gloved fingers brush against the sleeves of her tunic.

Clearing his throat, he says, “So, he _was_ a Mandalorian.”

“Eventually, yes.” She shrugs her shoulders then sighs, “I was so young, so foolish when I met him. I was . . . alone. It feels like a lifetime ago.”

“How long were you together?”

“Two years,” she replies, walking past him. Her pace is slow as he follows her. “We were pretty much married in every way imaginable before we decided to pledge ourselves to each other and make it official.”

 _So, she_ did _have a Mandalorian lover after all,_ he cannot help but think to himself with a smirk.

“And you still didn’t tell your family? Your friends?” He trails behind her as she steers them atop the roof in a rectangular circle.

“No one knew. Except, Dacob figured it out.”

_Of course, he did._

“One day,” she continues, “he caught Surjay staring at me just like the way that his own wife stared at him.”

They reach the trap doors that will lead them to the winding stairs below, but instead of opening them, Talia merely walks over them, guiding the two of them in another stroll beneath the roof’s coverings. He notices that the sun has freed itself from the horizon and is slowly floating into the bluish-pink sky.

“Ever been married?” she asks him over her shoulder.

“No.”

Talia perches herself onto the roof’s stone railing, her black boots hovering about half a foot above the floor. As she fixes her gaze to the West, he stations himself diagonally opposite of her and leans his back against the railing separating him from the courtyard below.

 _Okay, time for the big question. She’s gotta know I’m bound to ask it,_ he reasons with himself. But his tongue cannot seem to form the words. A week has passed since Talia emerged from that dark mourning period of hers, and he does not want to delve further into a topic that can possibly plunge his friend back into that. If he can delay seeing a sad, frail, and pain-stricken Talia again, then he will—for her sake.

As if reading his mind, he hears her say, “It’s okay, Ordo. You can ask me.”

He turns his head in her direction, astonished. With a hunter’s gaze, he studies her, wanting to check for himself if she is up to answering a question that she has given him permission to voice. He does not detect any signs of frailty or grief in her expression like last week when she mourned her uncle Zeb. Perhaps Surjay was not killed after all. Perhaps he and Talia had ended their marriage—which is not uncommon amongst people these days, especially from their culture.

Taking encouragement from his last thought, he asks, “What happened?”

A heartbeat, then two, then three passes before she confides, “Surjay wrestled with my higher social status. He didn’t think he brought anything to the table in our union.”

Knowing that this is going to be one of those “long stories” from Talia, he comfortably crosses his arms in front of him and opens up his mind.

“I kept telling him that didn’t matter to me,” she continues. “But being an orphan, having a rough childhood, living as a common soldier—it left him with some baggage.”

“His pride was taking a hit,” he states, and inwardly, he does not blame Surjay. He does not know how anyone could truly adjust being married to a spouse with more money and more influence without feeling like a disappointment.

For the next several minutes he listens to Talia share her life with Surjay. She says she knew that her man’s pride was being injured, even though it was Surjay who had wanted them to get married. However, they had both agreed to keep their marriage a secret because Talia was sure that politics and the Royal Court would have “eaten him alive” if they were aware of it. Yet, the Mandalorian has a feeling that she had mainly wanted to keep her and Surjay’s private life to themselves so they could enjoy their time together without any kind of interference.

She told him that her twenty-five-year-old husband was always hunting for get-rich-quick schemes. Much to the Mandalorian’s surprise, Talia did not ask Surjay what they were. Instead, she held her peace when she noticed how relaxed and content he was after he showed her all of the credits he had made from those schemes. She said Surjay believed that luck was finally on his side.

“But I don’t believe in luck,” she reminds him. “Still don’t.”

“How long were you two married?” he asks.

A fond smile plays on her lips when she reveals that her marriage lasted “three blissful months.” By that point, Surjay had made a substantial amount of money, and he wanted Talia’s family to know about them. According to her husband, he felt worthy of being married to her.

“But I got this feeling that there was more to it than having a bank full of credits,” Talia confesses to him. “I think he wanted to climb up the social ladder. Being married to me would have helped him get promoted in the military.”

“Promotion should be earned,” he states, wincing at how flat and unsympathetic he sounded.

“And I agree, Ordo. But people would be watching him, the husband of a Dewan. They would’ve been giving him opportunities to prove himself,” she explains the political angle. “So, when I figured his head was getting too ambitious for his helmet, I said I still wanted our marriage to be a secret. Just a little longer.”

“Did it take some convincing?”

She shakes her head. “Not really. He had another scheme in the works. If it all went smoothly, he was going to make a ship-load of credits. And . . . that’s what got him killed.”

Automatically, his eyes close for a few seconds, pity for his friend stinging him more than he expected. When he opens them again, he notices that Talia was looking at him, waiting for him to ask her to continue. He marvels how she does not appear to be overly sad, just . . . experienced.

Thinking that she must have come to terms with Surjay’s death some time ago, he steels himself. _Okay, here goes nothing._

“What was it, that got him killed?”

“Spice,” she reveals. “He was a spice runner.”

_Stupid boy. That’s another reason why she hates the stuff._

“His partners were cutting him out of the deal. It was a huge shipment from the Hutt Cartel. Iziz was a distribution center to the Core Worlds,” she explains. “So, they killed him for a bigger payday. When Surjay put the pieces together, a firefight broke out. The dock authorities got involved and silenced everyone. And that’s how I found out.”

Her tone reminds him of a storyteller: invested in the narration yet sad at the outcome of a tragedy. The Mandalorian counts just how many loved ones his friend has lost, and he wants to give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder when his brain comes up with the number five. And he thought Fate had treated _him_ wrongly by taking away his parents and his buir. But then, his Tribe lost their homeworld and had been hunted down like dogs, and Talia has been fairly safe here on Onderon while being surrounded by remaining friends and family.

“I’m sorry, Talia,” he quietly replies, not sure of what else to say.

She sends him a grateful smile. “I was angry at him for so long. Then at myself. It was a dark time for me. I should have—”

“Don’t blame yourself,” he interrupts, walking towards her. As he stands in front of where she is sitting, he has half a mind to settle a hand on top of hers, but he stops himself.

“I don’t anymore,” she assures him. Her gaze drifts over his helmet, and he watches her run her teeth of her lower lip, thinking. “It’s strange how his death was easier to recover from than Zeb’s,” she mutters to herself.

As his brain tries to find something comforting to say, he notices that Talia’s eyes seem distant. Then, she smiles as if she is simply re-living a fond memory of her first love and husband. She looks so at peace right now, reminding him that there are some painful things in this galaxy that can be healed and conquered.

 _I guess,_ he figures to himself, _a love like hers has that kind of effect._

“I’m sorry for spilling all of this on you,” she says, clearing her throat. He blinks, and just like that, Talia has jumped from her perch, her boots making a soft thud on the floor. He notices that her cheeks are flushed as pink as the early morning sky.

“It’s fine,” he tells her. “Glad I know more about you.”

She sends him an embarrassed smile and strides towards one of the roof’s trap doors. As he helps her open it, he asks, “So, there hasn’t been anyone since Surjay?”

 _Like Ryk’ken?_ he silently adds.

“Has there been anyone since Lila?” she counters, and he detects teasing in her accent.

“I asked you first,” he throws at her, blocking the entrance to the stairs.

Her gaze drops down to where his chin is, and she says, “N-no.”

 _Yeah right._ _A person can fight loneliness for only so long._

“Maybe one other woman,” he answers her question.

Her eyes snap to his visor. “Liar.”

“I’m not the only one,” he flatly quips again with a smirk. He remains where he is, blocking the path to the second floor, but Talia does not seem to be in any hurry to leave. So, he decides to press her by asking, “What about Ryk’ken?”

“Dacob?” she all but snorts in disbelief. “He’s like a brother to me.”

“Well, your ‘brother’ needs to stop looking like he really wants to kiss you.”

The disgusted scowl on her face makes him want to laugh.

“I was there for him when his wife died,” she explains, crossing her arms in front of her. “I knew what he was going through. And after a few years, he started to see me . . . differently. But I couldn’t give him what he wanted,” she declares, and in her eyes, he catches a flash of sympathy for her best friend. “I couldn’t settle down with him.”

“Even though you’re still lonely?” he queries, keeping his tone gentle. He remembers her confession last week about wanting to be fought for. Despite his initial dislike of Ryk’ken, he has a strong feeling that the other man can do that for her, if she let him.

“There are other ways to deal with it,” Talia states with an air of professionalism, and he knows that her solution must have been politics and serving her planet non-stop.

“Don’t you want to settle down and relax?” he asks her.

She shrugs her shoulders then drops her arms. “I get the temptation sometimes. But enough about me!” She waves a dismissive hand before focusing her eyes on him. “What about you?”

In response, he turns around and leads the way downstairs, not wanting to be the center of an interrogation. He hears her scoff at his movements before his ears pick up her footsteps behind him.

“Ever thought of quitting the bounty hunting business?” she asks him as they descend the spiraling staircase.

When he does not answer, he feels a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. At first, he wants to shake it off, but he forces himself not to. He glances behind him and finds Talia looking at him expectantly. He inwardly sighs. She had revealed more about herself to him again, and it is about time he opens up, too—and they both know it.

“Yeah, I thought about it,” he replies, and his mind flashes an image of Omera right before his eyes, replacing Talia with the beautiful widow.

He barely notices his companion retract her hand; however, her teasing voice pulls him back to the present: “I’ve heard that tone before. _You_ met someone, Ordo.”

When she wiggles her eyebrows at him, he turns away, feeling the back of his neck heat up. Despite the sirens in his brain telling him to leave, his feet are planted to the stone steps. He thinks of Omera, of her warm smiles and her kind plea to stay on Sorgan. Though he does not regret his decision to move on, he is still warmed that she wanted him to live in the village with her, touched that she actually wanted _him_.

He feels Talia squeeze past him in the narrow passage, and automatically, he presses himself against the wall so she can have more room. However, she lodges her body in front of his, and he can feel warmth and peace emanating from her.

When he lifts his gaze to hers, he sees an apology in her eyes. “What was she like?” his friend gently asks, all teasing removed from her elegant accent.

“Caring,” his tongue says before he can stop it. “Gentle and thoughtful. She had a quiet strength that I admired. She was a widow, too. And she had a daughter.”

The understanding smile Talia gives him is comforting. “She sounds special.”

“She was.”

“What stopped you from settling down with her?”

 _The kid. The bounty on his head,_ his brain lists off. _You. The debt I owe you. Your ring. My job. My armor. My Tribe._

But he holds his tongue and tries to come up with another answer. After a few seconds, he replies while breaking eye-contact, “That’s not the life for me, Kex.”

A thick silence settles between them. He hopes Talia does not think he has been unfair in keeping things close to his chest compared to her, but Omera is a subject he would rather not delve further into.

He is about to dislodge himself from Talia—who, he just realizes, is standing extremely close to him—when he feels gentle fingers separate his long sleeve and glove on his left hand. In an instant, he is transported back to Cholganna. Talia’s thumb strokes the inside of his wrist, offering him that genuine comfort she had given him after he had opened up to her for the first time. Like then, a sense of calmness and serenity spreads from her touch on his wrist then up his arm, and he allows that warm sensation to sweep over him with every stroke.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you,” she whispers. “I hope Omera wasn’t too disappointed.”

He flinches at the name, and Talia’s thumb stills. “How’d you . . . ?”

“You said she was a widow,” she reminds him with a half-smile. “I just put the pieces together.”

In a few seconds, he remembers that he mentioned Omera being a single-mother when he told Talia about the time he had spent on Sorgan. He silently curses himself for letting that slip.

Talia releases her gentle hold on his wrist, and he notices that she stands up straighter. She clears her throat and takes in a deep breath. Cocking an eyebrow at her, he waits for the announcement he knows she is going to dump on him.

“Ordo,” she begins, her voice professional again. “I have—I mean, I need to tell you something. I, uh . . .” She clears her throat one more time, and she forces her gaze to remain fixed on his visor. “I know you’re not going to like this—like what I’m about to tell you. But since we’re both being honest with each other . . . I have to tell you that . . . Thea insists you join me tonight.”

He blinks at her. He could have sworn that she was going to say something much more . . . personal and important than this. But then her words register in his brain, and he feels his body grow stiff.

“No,” he flatly answers. “Tell Thea ‘no.’”

“I can’t refuse her.”

“She’s your cousin,” he insists.

“Which is why I can’t tell her ‘no,’” she states, and he releases an annoyed huff. “Thea told me that Qasim mentioned you being my bodyguard,” Talia quickly explains. “She played along with him and didn’t say anything. But she wants you to come tonight.”

“How long have you known about this?”

Her gaze drops. Fiddling with the end of her shawl, she admits, “Yesterday.”

“No, Kex,” he all but commands before squeezing past her. He can hear her protesting as he descends the stairs.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Later that evening . . ._

Well, putting his foot down earlier that morning had only lasted for so long. Throughout the rest of the day, the Mandalorian had stubbornly refused to attend the Princess’ birthday celebration. He countered Talia’s arguments with his own until she made a bargain with him: if he went with her and posed as her bodyguard, even though he will be treated like a guest, his debt to her would be cut.

 _“All of it,”_ he negotiated, but he knew he was kidding himself.

 _“Oh, come on, Ordo. A few hours at the palace is not_ that _bad. A quarter.”_

_“Fine. Three-quarters.”_

_“No deal,”_ she replied, crossing her arms.

_“Two-thirds.”_

_“I don’t think so. One-third sounds about right.”_

_“Half,”_ he tried to haggle, but the stubborn women kept shaking her head at him as if she was a parent and he was her child.

 _“No. One-third,”_ she insisted. _“And that’s my final offer.”_

So, about an hour later he relented—which is why he is currently standing at the entryway of the Manor, his armor looking remarkably pristine and shiny (except for his right thigh-guard, the only piece that is not brand new). Talia had ordered RUBY to polish each section of his Mandalorian armor despite the man’s insistence that he could do it himself. But as he glances down at the silver-looking Beskar, he has to admit that RUBY did a really good job. The smooth metal glows like moonlight whenever any kind of illumination shines on it.

Underneath his armor is a new set of clothes that Talia had managed to get him. His own tunics and trousers were too old and worn for a visit to the Unifar Temple, so he did not argue when his host showed him a fresh set. His new clothes, charcoal gray and practical, fit him perfectly—including a pair of black boots that reached below his knees.

Thankfully, he is allowed to keep his belts, ammunition, and pistol. Talia did not even hint that he would need to surrender any of those items, especially his weapon. But since he is supposed to be a trusted bodyguard, he knows that being well-armed and prepared will reinforce his charade.

The major difference in his appearance is the absence of his gray cloak. He had traded it—albeit begrudgingly—for a deep purple one with black thread weaving its way through it in an intricate design. When he first saw it draping over RUBY’s mechanical arms, his head was shaking left and right in a determined refusal. The only reason why he yielded is when Talia reasoned, _“It’s so people will know that you’re with me.”_

Since he is signet-less, no one knows which Tribe he belongs to, and there is no way he is going to wear some random signet just to please his host or anyone else. So, a cloak representing Talia’s Clan is not too much to put up with. Besides, its presence simply associates him with Clan Kex, and publicly posing as a bodyguard will make it clear that he is “loyal” to Talia in a professional standpoint only. He is just glad she did not offer him the cloak as a gift like she did with his clothes and boots. She is an observant friend, and he thinks she knows that she would be pushing her generosity on him if she gave it to him.

As he paces from the front door to the middle of the courtyard and back, he can feel the cloak sway behind him. The purple fabric is fastened by a silver clip which is settled high against his collar bone. RUBY had advised him that most Mandalorians at Court have their cloaks hang over their right shoulders, so he allowed the droid to do the same for him. When he noticed that this arrangement hides ever so slightly his holstered pistol, he did not mind it after all.

The minutes seem to drag by like a lazy Hutt. Though he has it in him to be a patient person, he feels irritated for having to wait for so long. Talia has been getting ready for the past three hours. Well, Gia was not kidding when she said preparing her mistress for the event tonight would take time. Is his friend not done yet? The sooner they leave, the sooner they can come back.

He envies Vandar who will be baby-sat by both Gia and RUBY. It strikes the man as strange that the former will not be joining them, and he wonders if Talia will have to explain why she chose a bodyguard to accompany her rather than her handmaiden. But he stops thinking about it after a minute. If it does raise suspicions and becomes a problem, then it is Talia’s problem.

“Let her talk her way out of that,” he mutters to himself.

Time stretches even more as he continues to pace on a full stomach. A light dinner will be served at the gathering—or so he was told. But since he will be “on duty” and on his feet most of the night, he would not be able to join the dinner festivities. And that is why Talia made sure Solaria sent him a large meal to his room less than an hour ago. He is grateful to his friend’s forethought; besides, even if he was accommodated at the Unifar Temple, there is no way he would feel comfortable enough in a grand palace to actually eat anything.

“Don’t be nervous, Ordo,” comes an elegant accent above him.

His boots abruptly stop a few feet away from the front door. Turning himself towards the East Wing staircase, he is about to snap at Talia that he hardly ever gets nervous, but the words die on his tongue the moment he sees her slowly descending the stairs.

His friend, dressed in pink and gold, looks like royalty itself: powerful, lovely, and influential. Her pinkish gown reaches the floor, and its solid material is layered with a thin, wispy fabric that has a floral pattern embroidered with gold and dark shades of pink. Her bodice has a sleeveless design, exposing the ends of her shoulders, but he then notices that her dress really does have sleeves. At first, he thought they were her shawl—which matches her gown in both color and material—however, as he studies her, he sees that her sleeves connect to her dress underneath the arms and covers her arms down to her elbows.

All of her hair is piled on top of her head in a fancy bun, and the ceiling lights cascading on Talia make her dark brown tresses glow in a lighter shade. He can spot three braids, thin and rope-like, snaking their way through her locks. A few curls have escaped her hairstyle, yet from the way they bounce against her cheeks and hover above her shoulders, he suspects they were “released” on purpose.

A gold bracelet adorns each of her wrists, and on both hands, she has put on a ring designed as a flower. A fancy, gold embroidery sewn into her gown’s collar poses as her “necklace,” and he thinks that an actual necklace would have been too much. His eyes drift to her gold dangling earrings, which are larger than he has seen her wear, but they suit her well.

 _Yeah, Nazim was right. She would’ve been a great queen,_ he thinks to himself. _Looks the part, too._

A sense of awe washes over him as he watches his fellow Mandalorian descend the staircase. If someone had told him that he would be “pals” with Onderonian royalty, he would have punched them in the gut, hard. But here he is: friends with the great-granddaughter of a king; and a part of him wants to throw Talia a snarky comment or call her ‘princess.’ But his brain refuses to come up with an appropriate joke: seeing her all dolled up for the first time has stunned him.

Talia is halfway down the stairs when she sends him a smile, her pink lips looking fuller and even more plush this evening. Her shawl slips from her forearms to her wrists as she delicately lifts up her dress with her hands. He notices that her eyes drop to the stairs, making sure that she does not trip from her long, flowing gown. He then sees that she has donned a pair of slippers completely covered in two shades of gold beads. And for once, he does not shake his head or scoff at the sight of her footwear.

“Don’t you look dashing,” she verbally pokes at him, her tone playful.

The comment reminds him that he is being forced to go with her, and any awe that he had been feeling when he was studying her earlier disappears like a puff of smoke.

“Don’t flirt with me, Kex,” he warns, crossing his arms in front of him like the stubborn Mando that he is. “I’m _not_ in the mood.”

Talia reaches the bottom of the stairs and stands a few feet away from him. He notices that she bites her lower lip, but that does not prevent her smile from growing ever so slightly.

“You’ll know if I decide to flirt with you, Ordo,” she tells him, and he can detect more teasing in her voice. “But I was just paying you a compliment—which I can take back if you want.”

When she arches an eyebrow at him, for some reason he feels like he has just been reprimanded. Before he realizes what he is doing, he says, “Sorry.”

With a dignified nod, she accepts his apology.

“Mistress Talia!” RUBY calls out, shuffling his way across the courtyard.

They both turn, and the Mandalorian spies a long, rectangular box in the droid’s hands. A stark contrast to RUBY’s red plating, the box is silver with leaves and vines embedded in on its lid. He also notices that RUBY has a leather belt dangling from the crook of his arm. Attached to it is Talia’s vibrorapier.

 _Why would RUBY have_ that _out?_ he wonders since he knows his companion will not be wearing either of those items around her waist, especially not dressed like she is.

“Here is the Princess’ gift,” the droid-butler announces, extending the box to Talia. “I have just finished polishing it.”

“Thank you, RUBY.” She opens the small case and smiles at its contents. “Here,” she says to the Mandalorian. “Take a look.”

He cranes his neck to see inside. Standing out from a velvety background the color of midnight are two extra-long gold bracelets twinkling at him. Each has a main chain that can be secured with a simple clasp. The chain, he notes, has a set of small bells attached to it, and there are two more, thinner chains dangling from it, too.

“Very nice,” he remarks after his brain fails to come up with a better compliment. After all, what does he know about the proper gifts for a princess?

“They’re anklets. Little Talia loves wearing jewelry,” his friend reveals before she snaps the case closed. She then turns to her protocol droid and says, “Oh, before I forget, RUBY. You can give Traxell the rapier now.”

At this, the Mandalorian feels his body jerk, but he tries to cover it up. Unfortunately, Talia must have caught it because she explains, “It’s another thing to help people see that you’re with me.”

RUBY offers him the weapon, but he refuses to accept it. Instead, he reminds her, “I thought you said the cloak was enough.”

“It is,” she admits slowly. “But a ceremonial-looking sword will sell it even more, Ordo. Trust me.”

His gaze drops to the rapier. The thin, steel blade is polished and flashes like lightning whenever it catches the lights. Its hilt, dusty silver with splashes of bronze, is as intricate and refined as he remembers. He surveys the eagle-like bird fashioned in the handle, its neck unusually long. He has not seen the rapier since Cholganna, but he knows that the little ball at the end of the hilt is the switch that activates the vibroblade, making the rapier an even deadlier weapon.

With a nod, he accepts it and the belt attached to it. Since its presence is only for show, he purposefully stations the rapier on his left side. Unlike his pistol, the blade is not hidden by his purple cloak.

Once he secures the belt to his waist, he looks at Talia and finds her giving him a nod of approval. “Take care of it for me,” she teases. “Or I’ll be very upset.”

“It won’t get a scratch,” he says with a smirk.

“Excuse me, Mistress Talia,” RUBY interrupts. He walks over to the front door. “I have just been alerted that the Royal Transport has arrived.”

 _So, that’s how we’re getting there,_ the Mandalorian muses to himself.

“Very good, RUBY,” Talia replies with a smile. Then, she turns to him and asks, “Shall we?”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

The celebration of Princess Talia’s ninth birthday is definitely not what the Mandalorian had expected. He thought there would be hundreds of people, lords and ladies, all crammed into a ballroom, groveling at the young girl’s feet. Boring dancing would be the entertainment while political back-stabbing and gossiping would hover throughout stuffy air heavily laced with incense and perfume. A part of him figured that little Talia—which is what everyone seemed to call her—would either be bored to tears or causing havoc on this special gathering.

Instead, he had followed Talia into a large hall on the second floor of the Unifar Temple. It is an open room with a high ceiling, grand staircases, and smooth floors. He surveys hallways and doors leading to other areas in the Temple, and there are guards at every entrance and exit. Above him, he can see the third floor which is supported by marble columns. The general architecture inside the palace, he notes, reflects its outward design: sharp, rectangular, and immense; and this particular room is no different.

The hall is furnished with cushioned benches and sofas, chairs and side-tables, paintings and tapestries—all stationed against the walls. A massive rug, situated in the center, is kept in place with furniture that, he is sure, had been brought in for this special occasion. He counts three large couches, a platform for one of the couches, and five round tables that are small enough for the guests to place a handful of glasses there. A cart filled with spirits is positioned underneath one of the staircases, discretely pushed to the side yet made readily available for the adults in the room.

He and Talia are not in the hall for very long because, after five minutes, the guests are escorted to a small dinning room. He dutifully follows his host and stands a respectable distance behind her during the dinner, scanning the room every five minutes or so. Other guards, Onderonian and Mandalorian alike, are doing the same with the people they have been tasked to protect. He counts forty adults present, along with Ryk’ken and Nader, and a dozen kids—or young people as they are called. The entire Royal family, including King Ridha himself, is present for the Princess’ birthday, and it seems that Thea, looking quite majestic in her teal attire, is her normal self tonight.

Dinner does not last very long, no more than an hour. Afterwards, he follows Talia—who, he thinks again, seems particularly lovely this evening—back into the hall where the rest of the festivities will commence.

Standing beside a marble column, the Mandalorian watches the party, his gaze always shifting from one part of the hall to the other. Musicians, who have been tuning their instruments, are stationed on the third floor, right in front of the balcony. After a few minutes, they begin playing lively tunes which prompt the kids to dance. Hands are held, feet are kicked, and bodies are turning in circles. Little Talia is in the center with her brother, Ramsis, laughing and giggling. The adults clap and watch, and he notices that even a few of the guards are tapping their boots to the rhythm of the music.

“Which one are ye protecting?” a gruff voice says beside him.

He turns and finds two fellow Mandalorians looking at him. They are both wearing their helmets, but their armors differ. One is painted in forest green and has “horns” sticking out from his helmet, and there are obvious dents in the breast-plate that make the Beskar look bumpy. The other Mando, the one who had spoken to him, has a cream-colored armor, its design smooth and simple. He does not recognize them from earlier, and since it appears that they have just emerged from the door behind him, he figures they are replacement guards. He spies ceremonial braids on each of their right shoulders—black, silver, and dark gray—which means they are working under Viceroy Ryk’ken, the Clan Leader of Onderon.

“Lady Talia,” he replies, nodding at her. She is kneeling in front of little Talia, her pink and gold gown flowing around her like a flower as she opens up her present for the nine-year-old to see.

“That’s a surprise,” the same man remarks, his slanted accent sounding harsh. “She’s deadly. If you’d seen 'er during the Battle of Iziz, you’d want a bodyguard ta protect yourself from _'er_.”

Little Talia squeals at her present and jumps into her namesake’s arms. The Mandalorian watches his host swing the girl around before setting her down again.

“But I guess,” the guard says with a shrug, “if it’s what t'e lady wants, then why not, huh?” The man in cream armor turns away, but his friend in green lingers.

“Don’t mind, Deke,” the other guard tells him. “He probably envies your job. Most of us would be honored to protect the Lady Talia. I’m _Kurs_ * by the way.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: koorse; translation: “forest”)_

After the Mandalorian smirks to himself, finding the name appropriate for his new acquaintance, he introduces himself as “Traxell.” They nod at each other, and both witness Talia helping the Princess put on her gold anklets. The latter gives the former another hug before running off to show her friends the new gift. The anklets’ bells softly jingle with every step she takes, drawing the attention of most people in the room.

Meanwhile, Talia smiles at the Princess before strolling through the guests. Some of the people she walks by, he notices, look nervous as they send her a respectful bow. He even catches a glimpse of fear from a couple of guests.

“Why are they afraid of her?” he asks his companion. “I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.”

“They’re Onderonians,” Kurs bluntly replies. “They’re superstitious.”

“Of what?” he wonders aloud because the answer is far from what he had been expecting.

“Her bloodline.”

“Because she’s a Royal?”

“In a way. You see,” Kurs explains, “Lady Talia’s mother, Galia, was . . . How should I put it? Different. She had a way of influencing people, making them see her way of things.”

“Isn’t that just called charisma?” he asks.

“To some, maybe. But with a strong trait like that, Onderonians shy away from it like some kind of disease,” the other man shares. “It has to do with something about one of the Dendups' ancestors abusing that ‘charisma’ and ruling the planet with fear.”

“But that’s ancient history,” a thick Onderonian voice interrupts them.

The Mandalorian, recognizing that accent from Cholganna, feels his muscles stiffen. When he glances to his left, he finds none other than Bezden Cass the former aide of Nader standing there. Dressed in a dark blue tunic with matching trousers and slippers, Cass looks thinner in the stomach area than he remembered, but he still has that confident air about him.

“Kurs,” he says, jerking a darkly tanned thumb behind him, “I believe you’re needed elsewhere.”

The man in green glances in that direction and nods at both of them before excusing himself.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again, bounty hunter,” Cass remarks, his words thickly rolling off his tongue.

“That makes two of us,” he flatly replies, surveying the skinny man.

He notices that Cass’ jet-black hair is shorter now, which has calmed down any frizzy-ness in it. The buzz-cut style eliminated his wavy ringlets, but at least his hair no longer looks greasy. As always, Cass’ nose is stubby, matching his puffy lips. His close-set eyes survey him in his silvery armor, and Cass seems to be impressed with his appearance.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Kira City?” he asks the man who had slapped Talia back on Cholganna. And yes, he has not forgotten about that.

“I arrived yesterday. I had come to give Lord Qasim a report of his estate.”

“And you decided to crash a birthday party?”

“Believe it or not,” Cass replies with a small pout, “I still have friends in the palace. However, I am here to make sure that Lord Qasim’s glass is full and that he has everything he needs tonight. And I doubt anyone’s going to pay attention to a mere assistant.”

“Talia will notice.”

The demoted aide gives him a shrewd look. “On first-name basis, are we? Tell me, has she mentioned my formal apology about the spice?”

“She hasn’t forgiven you,” he almost snaps, his hand settling on top of his hidden pistol.

“Officially, she has,” Cass states as his dark eyes wander across the festive hall. His voice is quiet, almost humble, when he says, “I am grateful Lord Qasim has not dismissed me from his service. Running Rawda Hall,” he mentions the Kiran estate, “has given me time to . . . reflect. To see the errors in my actions.”

Normally, the Mandalorian would have laughed at the confession and accused it of being rehearsed. No one can change that much just after three months. But when he glances at Cass and sees him staring at his slippered feet, he finds himself doubting his own assessment. To him, Cass seems . . . contrite and even melancholy, two expressions he would never have expected to see on his tanned face.

“I’ll let Talia be the judge of you,” he states, dropping his hand from his holstered pistol. “I’m just her bodyguard tonight.”

“Ah, yes. Is she your patron? I hear some bounty hunters have one.”

“No.”

“On Cholganna, you two seemed . . . close,” Cass hints.

“It’s not like that,” he grits out.

“I have a woman,” the skinny man volunteers with a big grin. “She’s divine. You should consider getting one yourself.” Before the Mandalorian can tell him to mind his own business, Cass says, “Oh, I have to make sure Lord Qasim has a refill on his wine.” With a nod, he excuses himself, leaving the Mandalorian alone.

Over the next twenty minutes, he watches Cass with a hunter’s eye. Though he still does not completely believe his repentant attitude, he admits that Cass appears to be a dutiful assistant to Nader. He weaves himself in and out of groups and instructs the waiters to keep his employer’s wine glass half-full at all times. But what he finds interesting in his surveillance of Cass is watching him have a quiet conversation with Ryk’ken.

He remembers how much the former colonel disliked Cass and how the two men had butted heads when it came to lugging Talia back to Onderon. Thus, seeing them in a deep discussion is not only surprising but also strange. He highly doubts Cass’ new attitude has washed away his past rivalries with Talia, which Ryk’ken no doubt has a clear memory of. So, what has happened to make them peacefully collaborate together?

Ryk’ken, his dark head lowered to catch Cass’ words, looks grim as always as he listens attentively. The men speak to each other for a few minutes before Ryk’ken nods, as if he is giving Cass approval of something. Then, the skinny estate manager disappears from the gathering and slips down a hallway, out of the Mandalorian’s view.

So far, he has been fortunate enough not to talk to the Viceroy, not since Ryk’ken’s holographic “visit” to him at Ruping Hangar three weeks ago. Yet, a small part of him wants to ask the other man what changed his mind about Cass.

As he rolls over various possibilities in his mind, he notices Thea gliding towards him. The former queen is as regal as if she is still sitting on the throne. Her teal tunic flows down to her knees, and her puffy trousers underneath give the impression that she is wearing a dress. Gold embroidery lines the edges of her clothes, from her long-sleeved cuffs to the bottom of her tunic, up her arms, and around her round collar.

Atop her head is a shawl, but he notices that it is pinned into her dark, grey-streaked hair and cascades around her like a train. The transparent material is also teal and has gold thread sewn into an intricate pattern at the hemlines. The shawl shimmers in the light as Thea strides towards him at a leisurely pace in her expensive, gold slippers.

While giving her a respectful bow, he surveys her jewelry. Large earrings embedded with yellow gemstones dangle from her ears while a matching necklace, thick and expensive, wraps around her neck. On each of her hands is a bracelet that connects to a ring designed as a golden flower, telling everyone who sees her that she is a married woman.

“Your majesty,” he greets her, straightening his posture.

“Dan Traxell,” she replies with a dignified nod. “I hope you are enjoying yourself.”

Inwardly, he scoffs, but he remains silent for a moment. “I am. Considering,” he lies with a shrug. “It was kind of you to invite me. Your daughter is very animated.”

Thea chuckles at this. “Yes, she is. She reminds me of myself when I was her age. I am glad you came,” she tells him, her Onderonian accent more welcoming than Cass’. “I thought it would do you some good to see the world my cousin has lived in.”

His eyes shift to Talia: she is currently chatting with King Ridha and his brother, Ramsis. He would be willing to bet that she is passing on some hard-earned wisdom that she received from the political arena.

“It’s different from mine,” he admits.

“She looks at home here, doesn’t she?” Thea rhetorically asks. “But then, looks can be deceiving. I just wish she didn’t have this wander-lust in her. She could find peace here if she set her mind to it.”

“Did you know she wanted to leave?” he asks her. His mind switches over to Talia’s flight from Concord Dawn to Cholganna.

“Yes. I understand why, but then, there are times when I don’t.” Thea’s hazel eyes survey him, and he cannot figure out what she is looking for. “I want to thank you for saving her life. She told me about the Nexu you two fought off together.”

“We saved each other’s life,” he says. “It was the least I could do.”

“Thea!” Talia calls out, heading towards them. Her dark eyes are lively as she smiles at her cousin. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I was checking up on Dan,” the former queen says with a playful smirk. “I forgot to thank you, Tallie, for your birthday gift. We’re going to have an easier time finding Talia when she decides to disappear in the palace.”

“Which is why I gave her the anklets,” she replies with a laugh. As she turns to him, her loose curls sway in the air and skim across her flushed cheeks. “And how are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” he says with a stiff nod.

“Did you need me, dearest?” Thea asks.

“Yes, I do. Please excuse me for stealing her, Dan?”

He sends her another nod, and the smile she gives him shines brighter than the gold embroidery on her dress. The women link their arms together and slowly stride away in a rustle of teal and pink.

With their backs to him, he notices that the two cousins—though very pretty and undoubtedly noble—had once been the most powerful figures in the entire Japrael System. Thea had ruled as Queen of Onderon while Talia acted as Clan Leader. Both opposed the Empire, and both struggled to protect their people despite the toll it had taken on them. And now here they are: retired, exhausted, and still trapped by politics. He then realizes, as they lean on each other and give smiles to whoever they pass by, that they are beyond relieved they had victoriously fought through the Empire’s rule so their loved ones and children can enjoy peace.

“She told me about what happened on Cholganna,” Ryk’ken’s accent-free voice says on his right.

The Mandalorian detects a sharpness in the other man’s tone, and he stops himself from groaning at this unwelcome interruption of his thoughts. _What does he want this time?_ he asks himself. _To dish out more ambiguous threats?_

With hard eyes, he glances at the dark-skinned man. Ryk’ken had forgone in wearing his Mandalorian armor and has donned a tunic the color of red wine and black trousers and boots. Around his waist is a belt with a ceremonial sword attached to it, and looped around his right shoulder are three braids. He sees, hanging across his chest, a misty-colored sash lined with an ebony border and designed with vines and thorns of the same hue.

“How much did she tell you?” he curtly asks the other man. He remembers Talia’s conversation with Thea when her cousin was leaving the Manor. Thea urged his host to confide in someone, a man he figured; however, Talia insisted the man would not understand whatever it was she needed to tell him.

“Enough,” Ryk’ken answers, his pale green eyes focused on the woman they are discussing. “Your kid’s gift is what interests her.”

The words _rather than you_ hover between them, and the air is tense with mistrust and jealousy—but not from the Mandalorian’s side.

“Although, I have a pretty strong feeling,” the Viceroy continues, “that she didn’t tell me everything. The trust she’s placing in you—which I don’t approve of—is all because of the kid. Where’d you get him anyways?” He now looks at him, suspicion darkening his features even more.

“If she didn’t trust you with that information,” the Mandalorian coolly replies with a spiteful smirk, “then neither do I.”

The verbal prod rewards him, for Ryk’ken’s eyes nearly turn into slits. His mouth transitions into a scowl, and his brows furrow. “You better watch your back, _beroya_ *,” the Viceroy warns him, his tone heated, “because one day I just might give you trouble.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: bair-OY-ah; translation: “bounty hunter”)_

Without another word, Ryk’ken marches away from him, and not a moment too soon. The Mandalorian wants to shake his head. From what he gathers, he may have liked and gotten along with the other man if they met on different circumstances. But Ryk’ken’s jealousy, his fear of losing Talia’s friendship, keeps popping up between them. He knows he should not have poked at the Viceroy about Talia trusting him more than her supposed best friend, but he could not pass up getting underneath Ryk’ken’s skin. In his opinion, the other man deserved it.

A quick motion catches his eyes, and he sees Talia waving him over to where she is. As he walks towards her, she kneels in front of little Talia and gives her another hug. The Princess wraps her arms around her namesake’s neck, her eyes closed tightly. They pull away the moment he stands behind Talia.

In her elegant accent, his friend says to the Princess, _“Tug’yc, briikase gote’tuur, cyar’ika_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: Too-GEESH, bree-KAH-say go-te-TOOR, shar-EE-kah; translation: “Again, happy birthday, darling.”)_

Little Talia thanks her in Mando’a before his host shoos her back to the rest of the kids. Afterwards, she turns to him and asks, “Ready to leave?”

“You have no idea,” he flatly answers, which makes her chuckle.

With one final glance around the room, Talia sneaks him out of the hall and directs them down a staircase that will lead them to the ground floor of the palace.

As he descends the marble steps right beside her like an equal rather than a bodyguard, she says, “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

“I could’ve done without it.”

She tries to hide a smile from him. “I saw Dacob storming away from you a few mintues ago. I’ll take it you two still have a hard time being civil with each other.”

“Because he’s got a problem with me, I’ve got a problem with him.”

They reach the bottom of the stairs, and he follows Talia through a maze of hallways and rooms.

“For some reason,” she replies, “that doesn’t surprise me.” He then barely catches her mutter under her breath, “Stubborn Mandos.”

Not being able to help himself, he quips back, “Well, it takes one to know one, huh?”

She sends him a saucy smile over her shoulder before asking, _“Copaani mirshmure’cye, vod?_ * _”_

 _(_ * _pronounced: Koh-PAH-nee MEERSH-moo-RAY-shay, vod; translation: “Are you looking for a smack in the face, mate?”)_

A smirk plays on his lips at her teasing question. When they reach the front doors of the Unifar Temple, he remarks, _“Ret. Ret ni copaanir haa’taylir gar shukur gaan bat ner buy’ce._ * _”_

 _(_ * _pronounced: Rayt. Rayt nee KOH-pan-EER har-TIE-leer gahr SHOO-koor gahn baht nair BOO-shay; translation: “Maybe. Maybe I want to see you break your hand on my helmet.”)_

While they wait for the massive doors to be opened by the Onderonian soldiers who have been standing guard, Talia whispers to him, “ _Ne’johaa, buyca kovid._ *”

 _(_ * _pronounced: Neh-JOH-hah, BOO-shah KOV-eed; translation: “Shut up, bucket head.”)_

His smirk grows into an amused smile as the doors swing open. In a slightly mocking tone, he murmurs, “ _Mayen gar sirbur . . . alor._ *”

 _(_ * _pronounced: My-enn gar SEER-boor . . . ah-LOR; translation: “Anything you say . . . boss.”)_

The huff she releases is a mixture of a laugh and a scoff, and she tries to look offended when she throws a glance his way. Two of the moons—Dagri and Evas, he thinks—are hovering in the night sky and cascade their white glow on Talia’s face, making her look quite lovely. Her dark eyes sparkle with playfulness, and he knows she is enjoying the teasing just as much as he is.

They exchange smirks—though she does not see his—before he follows her out the doors and down the steps to their awaiting transport.

* * *

Talia's Attire on the rooftop:

The Mandalorian's new cloak and Talia's vibrorapier:

(I stumbled across the sword a couple of weeks ago on Pinterest, and I thought this is just perfect for Talia! I wish I found it sooner while I was writing "My Weapon, My Religion.")

Talia's Attire for the celebration at the Unifar Temple and her present to Princess Talia:

Thea Dendup Tor's Attire:


	9. "I Have a Bad Feeling About This"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick shout out to Anne for her lovely and encouraging comments! Thank you so much! This chapter is for you!

Chapter IX: "I Have a Bad Feeling About This"

It has been a couple of days since the party at the Unifar Temple, and he had that feeling again, that he had been followed. And it happened when the Mandalorian was on his way back to Dewan Manor.

He had just finished checking up on the _Crest_ at Ruping Hangar and treated himself to a taxi ride when his instinct sent sirens in his brain. Taking the warning to heart, he shouted at his droid-driver to stop. Then, he paid the driver, jumped out of the taxi, and made a beeline for a nearby alley. He raced down the enclosed street, his pulse throbbing in his neck.

In a matter of seconds, he heard several sets of boots pounding behind him. Glad that his gut was not playing tricks with him, he turned right and found a place to hide. With his blaster in his grip he slowed his breaths and waited for his stalkers to catch up. The footsteps had grown louder, his blood was simmering with anticipation, the seconds ticked by, but when he sprang out of hiding and pointed his blaster at the people chasing him, he had been disappointed.

Standing in front of him, with their hands raised in surrender, were three fellow Mandalorians. Their armors were dented, scratched, and dirty; instead of repairing them, they should just melt down the Beskar and re-forge all of their coverings. The Mandos had grunted in alarm at the sight of his pistol, and even now he can still hear their pleas emanating from their helmets.

 _“Woah, mate! We don’t mean any harm!”_ the tallest one had said. There was a huge blaster burn on his armor’s right pectoral.

_“Yeah, we’re just taking a short-cut like you!”_

_“We’re supposed to meet up with some friends, but we’re running late!”_

Despite the twisted feeling in his gut, he had lowered his weapon and apologized to them, saying that he thought they were someone else. The three sighed in relief and laughed it off. Their voices were gruff with a strange accent as they walked past him. One even slapped him on the shoulder good-naturedly before they all exited the alley and disappeared into the crowded street.

After the run-in, the Mandalorian felt his stomach calm down, but he hated this strange game it was playing with him. He took his time returning to the Manor, carefully checking his surroundings just in case.

He is now slipping through the back door of the house, his hands clenched into tight fists. _What’s going on here? Why’s this happening?_ he asks himself. He paces the courtyard, glad that it is deserted for the moment. His boots echo across the sandstone building, and he releases a frustrated sigh. _Am I losing my edge? Has being on Onderon made me lazy?_

“You seem distracted,” Talia’s voice calls out to him.

Immediately, he stops pacing. His grey cloak flutters behind him as he watches his friend emerge from her library. She slowly closes the gap between them, and in her arms is a sleeping Vandar, quietly snoring against her shoulder.

“What’s on your mind?” she asks, her voice low so she will not wake up the green-skinned baby.

At first, the Mandalorian wants to tell her that he is fine, that nothing is wrong. However, with Talia being just a few feet away and holding the person they are both trying to protect, he knows he should not hide his suspicions from her.

“I think I was being followed.”

Her eyebrows lift up, her forehead creasing with disbelief. “Okay,” she slowly breathes out. “You don’t sound sure about this, so maybe you’re just getting a little restless?”

“I thought so, too,” he admits, crossing his arms. “But it’s the second time I felt this.”

He watches her pat Vandar’s back as the little one coos against her shoulder. With a slow nod, she asks, “When was the first time?”

In the next few minutes, he recounts the early morning reconnaissance he had done the day of the Princess’ birthday. Talia listens, her expression becoming more serious than before. In his bounty hunter tone, he walks her through each of his attempts to outmaneuver his would-be stalkers, and frustration bleeds through his gravelly voice when he reports that both of his efforts to apprehend his invisible shadows had been in vain.

“And you’re sure you weren’t followed here?” she double-checks.

“Positive. My gut’s been quiet every time I come back.”

She hums at this but says nothing more. Half a minute passes in tense silence, and he begins to wonder if she believes him.

“Something like this happened to me when I was on Nar Shaddaa last year,” he defends. “Ever been to the Smuggler’s Moon?”

“Yes.”

Usually, he would have asked her when and why, but this is too important right now. With a nod, he continues.

“I’d been tracking a Rodian who skipped bail. He was slippery—way more than I expected. I chased him all over the Red District. At one point, his trail had gotten cold,” he shares, remembering the crowded city streets and the scent of garbage and spice. “Normally, I would’ve thought he’d high-tail outta there, but my gut kept telling me he was close by. So, I followed my instinct. And it saved my life.”

“He went after _you_ then?” Talia queries as she rubs Vandar’s back with her slim fingers, her bracelets softly jingling at the movement.

He nods. “The guy thought he could take me out of the picture. But he thought wrong.” When she meets his gaze, he can see a silent question in her dark eyes. “I brought him in warm,” he mentions. “He put up a fight, but I dragged him back to my client—alive.”

At this, Talia shifts her gaze away from him, and he notices she presses her lips together. This is one of the rare times when he has willingly volunteered information about his past. But until now, he has not talked about his job—which is more than likely a grim reminder to his companion of the kind of person she has allowed to live in her house.

“Perhaps,” she says, pulling him from his thoughts, “you should stay indoors for a couple of days. Just in case.” She glances at him, her expression neutral. “I don’t think this . . . calls for _drastic_ action.”

“No,” he agrees. But he is beginning to wonder if he has stayed here too long, if maybe it is time for him to move on. He needs to start seriously thinking about Talia’s request last week: should he let her travel with him?

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Four days later . . ._

The only reason why the Mandalorian agreed to wander the crowded market with Talia and Vandar—three districts away from Dewan Manor—is because his gut has not been alerting him of any stalkers or dangers.

After his “scare,” he had followed his host’s advice and did not leave the Manor. To occupy his time, he decided to keep a look out for Japp, the ghost handyman and gardener. He woke up early in the mornings but was disappointed that Japp did not make an appearance. It was the one morning that he decided _not_ to wait for him did the handyman slip into the courtyard, trim the garden, and then sneak out. To say that the Mandalorian felt cheated for not finally laying eyes on Japp was a massive understatement.

Being purposefully confined to the Manor had made him restless, which is no doubt why Talia suggested a walk through the marketplace. He reminds himself, as he trails behind her, that it will be very hard for anyone to follow anybody in a crowd this thick.

The marketplace is loud with shouts, laughter, and children giggling or crying. Vendors are bustling with business, and their owners cheerfully call out to potential customers. He can smell three different kinds of shig, meat cooking on spits, and fresh fruit from Kira City, all floating on the cool air. A Sullustan carrying droid parts accidently bumps into him and apologizes before rushing away. He sees Ithorians selling vegetables and edible roots on his left, their produce looking clean and ready to eat. Two Twi’leks are arguing over the price of a large rug while a Bivall, who is in the stand next to them, is punching away notes on his datapad.

A flash of green catches the Mandalorian’s eye, and he spies Vandar a few feet away from him, off to his right. The baby is safely tucked inside a backpack carried by Talia. His pointy-ears rub against the people she walks by, and he giggles at the tickling sensation. Staring at his guardian, Vandar lifts a hand to him as if to urge him to get closer.

Careful not to offend the people around him by bumping into them, the Mandalorian snakes his way over to his companions. He finds Talia chatting with a female Togruta who seems to be trying to convince his friend that buying another shawl will be in Talia’s best interest. The red-skinned humanoid is speaking softly, her white and black striped head-tails swaying as they hang in front of her. She almost towers over Talia, but he figures that is because the Togruta’s two head-tails rising into the air like horns are simply making her _look_ taller.

As he moves closer, he is able to get a better view of the vendor’s stock. Shawls and tunics in gorgeous colors hang from the canopy while piles of clothes are stacked on the nearby tables. Beads and glittery thread glisten in the sun. Though he is not an expert in fashion, even he has to admit that the Togruta’s merchandise appears to be made of very good quality. He sees, draped over the businesswoman’s red arms, five shawls ranging from yellow to pink.

Since the women are speaking in Togruti, he cannot understand them, but he waits for Talia to wrap up the conversation. His friend shakes her head, disappointing the Togruta. Yet before she leaves the stand, she says something that makes the other woman smile brightly.

“Why’s she so happy?” he asks once they are out of earshot. “You didn’t buy anything from her.”

“I told her I’m going to recommend her to the Unifar Temple,” she says with a smile. “She had just moved from Solaris, and I’m surprised she didn’t get any of the nobles’ attention there.”

“What’d she say about your clothes?” he pokes with a half-smile.

Talia wrinkles her nose at him. “She thought a pink shawl would have been better for this outfit.”

Not being able to help himself, he surveys her choice in clothes. Today has been cooler than usual, probably due to the rain on the northeast side of the city. No wonder Talia had decided to wear slightly warmer attire this late afternoon. Her blue tunic has a hint of teal in it and has long sleeves, which she has rolled up near her elbows. Her modest V-neck bodice comfortably hugs her figure before flaring out in the stomach area down to her knees. Below, she has donned loose trousers of the same color and material and a pair of faded red slippers.

She has wrapped a raspberry-colored shawl on her head, which covers the messy bun styled at the back of her neck. The shawl, with its gold border, has a simple pattern sewn with yellow and white thread.

Again, he is not expert in fashion, but he finds himself disagreeing the Togruta: Talia’s shawl fits the rest of her clothes well.

He notices that his companion had chosen to wear a limited amount of jewelry pieces today. She has put on simple gold earrings, a couple of rings (her Kex ring included), a few bracelets (not including her wrist communicator), and a necklace. Although the necklace is hiding beneath her tunic, only giving him a peek at its gold chain around her neck, he knows that it has a green gemstone acting as its pendant. It has been Vandar’s favorite necklace, which is undoubtedly why Talia has been wearing it a lot.

For the next half-hour they tour the marketplace. As they skirt around two Devaronians on the verge of an argument, his gut begins to twist again. He comes to an abrupt halt and clenches his jaw, trying to determine if this is another false alarm or not. But after a few more seconds, he realizes that his instinct is warning him that something, or someone, is going to pounce on him. On all three of them.

Quickly, he trails after Talia. He checks his ever-moving surroundings and attempts to ascertain an incoming threat. The market suddenly becomes more crowded, and he realizes that Talia has ventured out of his reach. He can see her petite figure and Vandar’s green head begin to disappear between a group of Biths. So, he hurries to over to them, wanting to warn his fellow Mandalorian before his gut is proved correct.

He does not care that he rudely pushes through Quarrens, Onderonians, or Aqualishes, not when his gut continues to twist and churn. It seems that the more agitated he is in reaching Talia, the farther she seems to drift away from him. In a matter of moments, he watches both her and the baby get swallowed up by dull Mandalorian armor and a rainbow of rustling fabrics.

“Talia!” he calls out, but it is pointless. The chances of her hearing him amongst the noise and the din are very slim.

As he searches through the endless crowd, he retrieves his commlink from one of the pouches attached to his belt. It had been his idea to make sure they had a way to communicate with each other just in case they got separated. Their comms have been set to the same frequency, and he blesses Mandalore for giving him the wisdom to think ahead.

“Talia!” he barks into the commlink despite the fact that he knows the device is simply chiming on her end. So, he keeps on heading in his companions’ last known direction until a hand suddenly grabs his elbow. He is about to wrench it free until a voice stops him.

“Ordo!”

Recognizing that particular accent, he turns around and finds Talia standing next to him with the backpack carrying Vandar settled in front of her rather than behind. The gifted baby is smiling up at him. In a quick glance, he sees that they are unharmed.

After he swallows a sigh of relief, he opens his mouth and says at the same time as Talia: “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.” They both jerk their heads at this. While he sounded more demanding, Talia’s voice was painted with concern. However, she must have heard the urgency in his tone because she looks at him with alarm.

“What’s the matter?” she asks him, releasing her hold on his elbow. “Are you all right? I thought—”

“Something’s wrong,” he interrupts as he stashes away his commlink. “My gut says we’re being followed.”

Her eyes widen at the news. “Again? But there are so many people here.” She looks at the crowd moving past them like a never-ending school of fish. “Are you sure?”

In response, he grabs her hand and pulls her along with him while he tears through the marketplace as if he was a shark speeding through the ocean.

“I really can’t explain it, Talia,” he says over his shoulder, glad that she is not trying to yank her hand out of his grip. “Just . . . trust me. Please,” he adds at the last moment.

He is thankful she does not say anything or argue with him. Instead, she simply squeezes his hand in compliance and tries to keep up with his long strides. He looks above him, surveying the buildings surrounding this district’s market. The sun catches his eyes, and he turns away before it blinds him. He figures it is almost four in the afternoon, which means people will start returning to their homes for the evening meal in over an hour.

After a few minutes, he hears Talia ask beside him, “Where are we going?”

“High ground,” he says as they walk past an Aqualish merchant selling swords, knives, and blasters.

“Won’t that expose us?” she queries in a gentle tone. “Aren’t we safer with all these people, Ordo?”

“Too many people.” He does not mention that if this situation comes down to a fight, then he will not have much room to pull out his blaster. “Let’s find a place where we can hide,” he tells her.

“I’ll take it you don’t want us to double-back to the Manor.”

Before he answers, he bites the inside of his cheek so a scoff will not emerge from his lips. “I won’t risk leading whoever’s following us to the only safe haven for the kid,” he replies, his tone daring her to argue with him.

At long last, they emerge from the marketplace. The crowd has thinned out, so he releases Talia’s hand. He leads them out of this district into one that is primarily known for its Ithorian inhabitants. The aliens with long, curving necks and T-shaped heads pay them no attention as the trio weaves around them.

Behind the Mandalorian, he can hear Talia whisper to Vandar, telling him that everything will be fine soon. He just hopes her promise proves to be true.

A large herd of Ithorians march on their right, which makes the Mandalorian steer himself and Talia to their left. As they approach a nearby alley, four men—one dressed in travel clothes and three in bulky Mandalorian armor in dire need of repair—appear once the Ithorians have passed by. In the blink of an eye, his instincts spike up to red-alert at the exact same time that two men each grab hold of him and Talia and push them down the alleyway.

“Hey!” his companion shouts at them. “Let go!”

Rather than say anything, the Mandalorian tries to break free from his captors. He wrenches his arms away from the men, but their grip on him tightens. Against his will, he is forced to scurry down the alley. His boots try to dig into the pavement, to stop him from moving any further, but to no avail. Behind him, he can hear Talia wrestling her captors and demanding they release them.

They are soon boxed in when four more men approach them from the opposite end of the alley. While three are wearing plain clothes, he notices that the final man is also wearing Mandalorian armor. Like the three Mandos restraining him and Talia, this one has armor boasting of dents and scratches. But a blaster burn seared onto the new Mando’s chest-plate, on the right pectoral, jogs his memory. He feels regret combining with apprehension when he realizes that these Mandos are the same ones he had thought were following him several days ago. They had pleaded innocence, made excuses, and he had let them go. But all that time, they had actually been stalking him.

The Mando standing several yards in front of him points to them and says in the Nikto language, _“Get the child!”_

“No!” he hears Talia shout, which forces him into action.

He slams himself, and his Mando captors, into the alley wall. Since he suspects that they may be Nikto masquerading as members of his Creed, he feels no sympathy for them when they groan from the unexpected crash. Taking their surprise to his advantage, he wrenches his arms free of their hold and yanks out his blaster pistol. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that Talia has not only freed herself but has also removed the backpack containing Vandar. The kid is stationed between the two of them, taking in the fight before him with worried eyes.

Hearing the four assailants from the other end of the alley running in his direction, the Mandalorian takes this small window of opportunity to fire at one of his captors laying at his feet. His shot is true, sliding right between the breast-plate and helmet. However, when he turns around to deal with the other Mando, he gets tackled by that very same man and another assailant. Much to his dismay, he feels more than sees his pistol slip from his hand.

Before he knows it, he finds himself tumbling onto the filthy alley floor chest-first, and he thinks he may have bruised—if not cracked—a few ribs. The bottom of his helmet digs into his chin, and his jaw slams his teeth shut, hard. Swallowing a groan, he ignores the sharp pain that tingles the rest of his skull and elbows the Mando assailant on his right in an unarmored part of his body. The man is caught off-guard; he loses his balance, falls on his rear end, and even bangs the back of his helmet-covered head into the alley wall.

Meanwhile, the assailant on his left, who is clutching his arm tightly, wraps a free hand around the Mandalorian’s neck and squeezes. Quickly, he dives to the ground, taking the other man with him. He then rolls them both over, which forces his attacker to release his neck. Next, the Mandalorian slams the man directly into the dazed Mando who is still slumped against the wall.

His arm is free just as three more attackers join the fray. One runs past him towards Talia while the other two race in his direction. Still lying on his back, the Mandalorian kicks the plain-clothes assailant square in the chest, sending him to the ground. When his gaze focuses on the Nikto-Mando with the blaster burn stamped on his armor, he feels his eyes widen at the sight of a pistol being directed at him.

Time seems to slow down. At a snail’s pace, his hand reaches for the vibroblade that he has stashed in his boot. Suddenly, a shot from behind the Mandalorian rings through the air. The red laser bolt hits the approaching Mando’s helmet before ricocheting off of the dented Beskar and barreling into the side of the building. The Nikto-Mando is knocked onto the ground, dazed.

Knowing the shot must have come from Talia, the Mandalorian takes half a second to glance over his shoulder while simultaneously pulling out his vibroblade as a precaution. He finds his friend racing past him, three of her attackers lying on the floor either dead or unconscious. A blaster from one of the men is in her hand as she kicks a pistol away from the Mando that she had just shot. Her red shawl is tangled around her neck, and the messy bun that she had styled her hair in is practically undone.

As the Mandalorian rises to his feet, Talia stands over her defeated Nikto-Mando. Movement on his left catches his eye, and instinctively, he activates his vibroblade and throws it. The knife cuts through the garbage-filled air like lightning and plunges its sharp end deep into the chest of the man he had kicked to the floor. The plain-clothes attacker slumps to the cobblestone ground, and a patch of red appears—it almost seems—out of nowhere before gradually spreading to the rest of his tunic.

With a grunt, the Mandalorian makes his way over to Talia who has just removed the Mando’s helmet. His eyes take in a male Kajain’sa’Nikto, or “Red Nikto,” a Nikto subspecies known for living in the desert region of their home-planet of Kintan. Their orangey-red-skinned prisoner squints his light brown eyes at him and Talia, still dazed from being shot in the head. The top- and back-side of his skull is covered in ridges, and small facial horns surround his eyes and the sides of his face. Two pairs of breathing tubes on each side of the Nikto’s neck peek from underneath his tunic. From what the Mandalorian knows of this alien species, the tubes—including their prisoner’s nose—are covered with a movable flap of skin which allows the Nikto to breathe without ingesting sand, grit, and dirt.

“He’s a bounty hunter,” the Mandalorian blurts out, catching his breath. That is the only explanation as to why the Nikto and his accomplices would attack them; they wanted to kidnap Vandar and kill anyone who got in their way.

“Where’s the kid?” he asks his companion.

“Behind me.”

When he turns in that direction, he does not see the baby. Nor does he see two of their attackers slumped against the alley wall. In fact, his eyes take in a more alarming sight: a plain-clothes man and a “Mando” running down the alley with a backpack slung over the latter's shoulder. And that backpack is still holding Vandar who whines loudly, reaching for his two guardians.

“Talia!” the Mandalorian shouts.

He does not even know if she is following him as he races after the child. His heart pounds in his chest, and he manages to scoop up his discarded pistol. The moment he raises it, the two kidnappers exit the alley and melt into the crowd.

 _“Haar’chak!_ * _”_ he curses so loudly that his voice bounces off the stone walls, but he keeps running towards the end of the alley. “Why weren’t you watching the kid? Watching _them_?!” he throws over his shoulder at Talia. Anger fills him to the extent that he does not care that his companion has a nasty cut above her right eyebrow. Blood is trailing from the open wound down the side of her face.

 _(_ * _pronounced: HAR-chak; translation: “Damn it!”)_

“Don’t blame _me_!” she snaps behind him, her accent crisp. “I thought you had taken care of those two!”

“Well, I didn’t!”

“You should have made sure they were neutralized!”

They reach the end of the alley, and the Mandalorian swivels his head left then right. He spies the men down the street as they jump into a speeder and zoom away with Vandar in tow. Instinctively, he moves to dart after them, but a firm hand on his bicep pulls him to a stop. His blood boils at this, and he yanks himself free.

“Ordo! It’s too late.”

The words cut him deeper than a vibroblade, and he spins around, glaring daggers at Talia. “How can you say that?!” he demands. He feels his muscles twitch with the urge to . . . to . . .

“They could be going anywhere!” she argues before racing back into the alley where they had left their prisoner.

“ _Now_ they are!” he almost roars as he marches after her. He holsters his pistol. “If you didn’t stop me, I could have—”

“There’s no way you’d be able to catch up with them,” she snaps, jogging towards the Red Nikto. Their prisoner is scrambling to his feet until Talia reaches him and punches him in the jaw. He falls back on the ground as she points her blaster at him. “Don’t move,” she warns, her voice deadly.

As the Mandalorian retrieves his vibroblade from a dead man’s chest, he notices the Nikto gulp hard before nodding at her. He wipes his knife on the body’s shirt then slides it back in his boot.

“Give me your commlink,” he hears Talia order. When he looks at her, he sees her hand extended at him and not at their prisoner.

“Why?” he asks.

“Just do it,” she says.

After he obeys and his commlink is in her hand, she tells him to watch their prisoner. He yanks out his pistol and points it at the Nikto as Talia fiddles with her wrist communicator.

 _“Izizian Guard,”_ a voice announces from one of their comms.

“This is Lady Talia Dewan Kex,” his companion informs the man on the other end. “I have to report an assault on myself and my bodyguard, Danaan Traxell. And of a kidnapping.”

 _“Send me your coordinates, my Lady,”_ the Izizian Guard instructs. _“And explain the situation.”_

“The coordinates have been sent, but I’ll have Traxell fill you in.” She turns and gives him his commlink. “Tell them what happened.”

The tech is in his hands before he can blink. Talia walks past him in a rustle of blue and raspberry material. She then kneels in front of the Nikto and grabs his orangey-red chin.

“Why me?” the Mandalorian asks. Should not _he_ be the one questioning their prisoner instead?

 _“Traxell?”_ the Izizian Guard says from the commlink in his hand. _“Are you there?”_

Rolling his eyes, he reports what happened: the fight, the number of men who attacked them, the kidnapping of Vandar—everything. But he cannot help eavesdropping on Talia has she interrogates the Red Nikto. As he describes Vandar’s appearance, he catches a few sentences like “You will tell me what I want to know, or I’ll make your life a living hell” and “Who hired you?”.

“Lady Talia is questioning one of our attackers,” he tells the man on the other end. “I’ll let you know what we find out.”

_“Very good, Traxell. I’m sending a squad to your location to assist and clean up the scene. They should be there in ten minutes.”_

The Mandalorian returns to his companion and squats beside the Nikto who is still on the filthy ground. He notices that Talia’s hand is no longer gripping the alien’s chin but is now pressed onto his scratchy armor.

“How many Guild members are with you?” she tersely asks.

 _“Just us four,”_ their prisoner answers in his native language, his light brown eyes looking tired with every passing second. _“All Nikto.”_

“Ordo, can you commandeer a speeder for us?”

“Right now?” he deadpans.

“Yes.” She returns her attention back onto the man on the ground. “Who were those other men with you? And where are they taking the child?”

Knowing that she will not change her mind, the Mandalorian huffs and reluctantly does what she asked him. He darts out of the alley, his blood urging him to just take off and leave her behind so he can go after the kid. But he knows she was right: the bounty hunters could be anywhere by now, and they have no clue where to find them. Well, at least it seems that Talia’s questioning is working—even if he thinks such a simple interrogation tactic can only go so far with a hardened bounty hunter.

No more than five minutes pass before he returns to Talia. He had found something better than a mere speeder: a four-seater transport with enough power in its engine to fly above the buildings. During his commandeering, he had to throw in Talia’s name, family, and position to the vehicle’s owner, a suspicious Bivall. Yet success was his after he promised fifty credits for every scratch that his beloved transport might get.

“I got us a ride,” he informs his companion.

“Help me get him up,” she says, pulling the Red Nikto to his feet. “He said they’re taking Vandar to Fambaas Hangar. They have a ship. Then, they’re planning to sell him to the Guild somewhere off-world.”

As he pulls the Nikto’s arm over his shoulder, he asks, “And why are we taking him?”

“Because,” she huffs while struggling to carry their prisoner’s heavy weight, “I still have some questions to ask him. I’ll do it on the way.”

The walk to their commandeered transport is somewhat sluggish. The Nikto is no help; apparently, he is still stupefied from being shot and punched by Talia. His horned head lulls listlessly, and he cannot seem to keep his eyes open.

“What’d you do to him?” he asks while they toss the fake Mando in the backseat of the transport.

“Never mind that,” Talia says in a no-nonsense voice. “Do you know where Fambaas Hangar is?”

He gives her a quick nod, and they both jump into the vehicle. Once he is settled in the driver’s seat, he turns on the engine. It roars like a Rancor, drawing the attention of everyone in the street. His gloved hands grip the controls, and he slams his foot onto the acceleration pedal. The transport surges forward. He hears Talia grunt at the sudden movement before she begins questioning the Nikto.

“You _will_ tell me your plans, or you’ll—”

The rest of her threat is drowned out by the engine. It screams when he steers the vehicle northwest in a steep incline.

“Come on,” he mutters to it. “Come on. Almost there.”

Seconds tick by as he guides the transport higher into the air. They are almost at the same level as most of the buildings. He needs just a little more altitude before he can straighten out the vehicle.

“Got it,” he murmurs to himself, but any sense of victory is demolished when his thoughts turn to the kid, who is more than likely scared and confused right now. He can imagine a frown on his mouth and the sense of dread that must be shaking his ward’s little body.

He should have killed those bounty hunters. How could he, a bounty hunter with his reputation, have been so lax? He jerks the vehicle to the right, avoiding a three-story mansion. And now, because of his sloppiness, those men have Vandar. What kind of guardian is he? He should have listened to his instincts a week ago and left Onderon for good.

After he zigzags their way over Iziz for a few minutes, he feels Talia grab his shoulder to steady herself as she stands up then plops into the passenger seat beside him. He spares her a glance once she lets him go.

“What about our guy?” he asks, jerking his head to the back.

“I knocked him out,” she answers over the rumbling engine of their transport. She removes her shawl from her neck. “He says that, if his gang wanted to be paid in full, they were supposed to kill both of us. Is that normal in this line of work?”

“Not unless there’s a hit on us,” he replies, keeping his attention focused in front of him and on his driving.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Talia raise her wrist communicator to her lips. “Izizian Guard, come in. This is the Angel of Onderon.”

_“Go ahead, Angel.”_

Over the next two minutes she explains their current situation and the reason why they had relocated so suddenly. The Mandalorian calculates that they should be arriving at Fambaas Hangar in the next seven minutes, and not for the first time, he is glad he had gone on multiple, thorough patrols since he came to Iziz. His extensive reconnaissance is paying off.

“We’re breaking so many rules flying over the city like this,” he hears his companion mutter to herself, but he does not detect any regret in her accent. “IG,” she says to her contact in the Izizian Guard, “I need reinforcements sent to Fambaas Hangar as soon as possible.”

_“Yes, my Lady.”_

“And contact the hangar for me; I need to speak with them,” she instructs. When the Mandalorian makes a right turn, he notices Talia use the few moments during the transfer to braid her hair. In seconds, her dark locks are styled in a braided bun secured at the back of her head.

 _“I have Fambaas Hangar standing by,”_ the man from the Guard informs her.

“Patch me through,” she orders.

 _“Lady Dewan?”_ a female voice chimes over the cool wind and buzzing engine.

“Yes. I need you to lock down your hangar and ground all ships. Then, I want security sent to the ship parked at Section D. It’s called the _Firepit_.”

 _“I’m sorry, my Lady,”_ the woman says. _“But I must respectfully deny your requests.”_

“What?!” the Mandalorian and his friend bark at the woman.

“How can that be possible?” Talia demands, her voice sharp.

“Does she even know who you are?” he scoffs as he maneuvers the vehicle between a maze of extremely tall buildings.

“Those weren’t requests,” she snaps at the woman while wrapping her raspberry-colored shawl around her head.

 _“Forgive me, my Lady,”_ a male voice answers instead. _“This is Chass, head of security and owner of Fambaas. I have orders to leave my hangar open and to not interfere with_ Firepit _and its crew.”_

“You have new orders,” Talia insists. “As an advisor to King Ridha himself—”

 _“My instructions have come directly from Viceroy Ryk’ken,”_ Chass reveals firmly. _“I am under his protection and his orders. Good day.”_

The comms are abruptly cut off, and Talia scoffs, clearly offended. While she says, “He just hung up on me!”, the Mandalorian blurts out at the same time, “Ryk’ken put a hit on us!”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “That can’t be. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me,” he mutters as his grip on the controls tightens. “If I see that _aruetyc shabuir_ * again, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: AH-roo-eh-TEESH SHAH-boo-EER; translation: “traitorous jerk”; “jerk”: extreme insult but much stronger)_

“Dacob wouldn’t hurt me,” she claims, obviously ignoring his comment. “Much less order a bounty on me.”

“Maybe you turned him down one too many times,” he figures aloud as he presses down on the acceleration pedal even more.

“He’s better than that, Ordo,” she snaps, and he can hear how protective she is of her best friend. “Besides, Dacob detests bounty hunters—no offense. Why would he hire some to take Vandar and order your death? He knows you’re my guest and my friend.”

“Talia,” he replies through clenched teeth, “Ryk’ken’s jealous. And jealousy blinds a man.”

“How in the name of Dxun can he be—”

“We’re here,” he interrupts.

He does not have time to roll his eyes or scoff at her unfinished question. With experienced hands, he makes their transport descend from the rooftops and fly back onto the ground again. He does not slow down the vehicle’s current speed, which, he notes, causes Talia to grip her seat and brace for impact. The tail end of the transport slams onto the street and skids across the cobblestones for a few seconds. The Mandalorian curses under his breath, knowing that the vehicle’s owner will be receiving more than fifty credits by the time they give it back to him.

As he forces the transport to come to an abrupt halt right in front of Fambaas Hangar, he hears Talia contacting the Izizian Guard again, asking when their back-up will be arriving.

 _“Ten minutes,”_ comes the reply. _“I’m sorry, Angel, that it won’t be sooner. Your requested squad encountered a traffic collision_ en route _, and it’s taking them some time to get around it.”_

“Copy that,” she sighs. “Keep us updated. Traxell and I are going in.”

They both leap from their commandeered vehicle, and he recognizes the speeder that Vandar’s kidnappers had used. He runs over to it and allows his hand to hover over its engine.

“It’s hot,” he tells his companion.

“Let’s hope _Firepit_ and its crew are still inside,” she answers. “Earlier, I made sure your commlink is connected with IG. If we get separated, you’ll still be updated.”

He nods. “What about him?” he asks, pointing to their unconscious prisoner.

“He’s not waking up anytime soon.”

Without another word, he jogs towards the entrance of Fambaas Hangar. As he pulls out his pistol, he can hear Talia behind him. The door to the office of the aircraft hangar is open, and he almost bumps into a Devaronian exiting the establishment. The horned alien curses at him but pays them no mind.

The lobby and main office are large, and they race through it. A few administration employees shout at them when they see their firearms, but the Mandalorian ignores them. He runs down the main hall that leads them to the hangar itself—and it is bigger than he realized, with high ceilings and a turbolift that gives people access to at least three levels.

He glances around the first floor and sees two ships, both of them at least six times the size of his _Razor Crest_.

“Second level,” his friend says, running past him towards the turbolift stationed directly across from them.

Automatically, he follows her. While doing so, he notices that the ground floor consists of Sections A and B, meaning D is only a short elevator ride away.

“I’ll take this,” he tells her as they approach the turbolift. “You take the stairs.” He points to the metal staircase off to their right.

“No, we need to stick together,” Talia argues, pushing a button on the panel that will summon the lift.

“If I get there first, I can cause a distraction and go in hot,” he explains gruffly. “And you can back me up from your position. It’ll catch them off-guard.”

The turbolift arrives and swooshes its doors open as Talia considers his plan.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” she confides, her eyes tinted with worry. “But . . . fine.” Then, without another word, she darts for the staircase in a flash of red and blue.

Glad that she did not argue with him for very long and that they seem to be of one mind so far, the Mandalorian enters the turbolift and orders it to take him to the second floor. After the doors close, he glances around him, noticing that the lift is large enough to fit the at least two transports the size of the vehicle that he had commandeered.

Using the ten seconds it takes for the elevator to reach its destination, he steadies his breath and clears his mind of everything but the mission: rescue Vandar and eliminate anyone who tries to stop him. His grip on his pistol tightens, and he can feel a rush of adrenaline surge through his blood, readying his body for what he knows will be a fast-pace firefight and assault.

The lift comes to a stop, and its doors slide open. With the barrel of his blaster pointed up, he peaks outside of his temporary safe haven. In three seconds, he takes in his surroundings. He notes cargo boxes stacked against Sections C’s and D’s walls, a handful of droids shuffling about, almost a dozen thugs dressed in traveling clothes, and one ship— _Firepit_ —parked to his right.

 _Firepit_ is about the same size as the spacecrafts docked on the first floor, and he figures it must have at least three levels inside it. And heading towards the lone spacecraft, he sees, are the two bounty hunters who had kidnapped Vandar. It seems they had arrived no more than thirty seconds before he did.

The fake-Mando, who is carrying the backpack with Vandar still inside, throws off his helmet, an action that reveals his true identity: a Kadas’sa’Nikto, or “Green Nikto.” Like his and Talia’s prisoner, this bounty hunter is also a subspecies of the Nikto people; however, unlike the Reds, the Greens come from a milder, climatic region of Kintan. If he remembers correctly, the Greens favor the forests and the seacoasts of their planet. They have scaley skin accompanied by small facial horns protruding around their eyes and chin. In his line of work, he has stumbled across the Green Niktos before, and he cannot forget their long, climbing claws on their hands. If not for his armor, his chest would boast of scars and claw marks.

Beside the Nikto, his humanoid companion yells at their crew, ordering them to pack up. So, while they prepare to leave, the Mandalorian takes this opportunity to sneak out of the turbolift, intending to hide behind a pile of metal crates stationed near the lift. He inwardly thanks whoever left the empty boxes in such an inconvenient place, but his movement does not go unnoticed. Someone catches sight of him the moment he steps out of the elevator and shouts to the crew. Before the Mandalorian knows it, he is being bombarded by blaster fire.

He curses in Mando’a before taking in a deep breath and returning fire. Conscientious that he is exposing himself as he shoots at his adversaries, he makes sure that every shot counts. His red laser bolts eliminate two men, causing them to drop like flies. He finds cover, stays where he is for three seconds, exposes himself just long enough to fire twice, retreats behind the metal boxes, and repeats this action one more time before retrieving his commlink.

 _“Me’bana_ * _?”_ he hears Talia ask him.

 _(_ * _pronounced: may-BAHN-ah; translation: “What’s happening?” and or “What happened?)_

 _“Tion gar taap_ * _?”_ he shouts over the sounds of multiple blasters being fired.

 _(_ * _pronounced: Tee-ON gar-tahp; translation: “What’s your position?”)_

He runs over to another pile of cargo boxes to his left, randomly releasing cover-fire and not caring if he hit anyone. Before he dives behind his next shield, he sees, at least several yards right of the turbolift, a series of bright red laser bolts originating from a bin that contains a large pile of ship parts and scrap metal.

 _“Does that answer your question?”_ he hears Talia say as he squats behind his smaller cover.

Amazed that she managed to run up a flight of stairs in barely over a minute, he fires twice and eliminates a man who had been using _Firepit_ as a shield. His gut twists when he hears the ship’s engines start to rumble. About four men are down, and there are at least eight more still active.

 _“IG!”_ he hears Talia bark over the comms. _“How far away is our back-up?”_

As the Mandalorian sneaks a glance from behind his cover, he spies the bounty hunters—who are still bombarding him and his companion with blaster fire—retreating to the other side of their ship, straight towards Talia’s location. He can barely hear the Izizian Guard member report that reinforcements are seven minutes away as the hunters spray his location, including Talia’s, with a steady assault of firepower.

The engines are slowly roaring to life, and time is against him. So, the Mandalorian runs from his cover and charges his opponents. His boots pound onto the hard floor just as he sees the bin of scrap metal—the one that Talia had been hiding behind—start rolling towards three of their attackers. The men try to avoid the metal container and are unable to pay attention to him. Using the distraction to his advantage, the Mandalorian raises his pistol and shoots. One by one, the men drop to the floor while Talia’s bin crashes into the starboard side of _Firepit_.

A surge of heat warms his body. His gut orders him to drop and roll, so he obeys without hesitation. Holding onto his pistol with one hand and his commlink with the other, he rolls forward, his helmet and armor scraping and banging against the floor. He feels more than hears the ship’s thrusters swoosh, releasing a massive heatwave that would have scorched him alive if he had not listened to his instincts.

While the Mandalorian raises himself up from the ground, _Firepit_ ’s engines scream to life as the ship hovers in the air. Then, much to his horror, it flies out of Fambaas Hangar.

Springing to his feet, he runs to the end of the hangar, points his blaster at the retreating ship, and fires six consecutive shots. Though he does in fact hit his large target, he is out of range by the fifth laser bolt. His boots skid to a stop when he reaches the open doors of the hangar. A sense of helplessness overwhelms him as he stands there watching _Firepit_ grow smaller with every passing second.

“Ordo?” he hears Talia whisper.

He turns around, expecting to find her walking towards him, but is stunned when she is nowhere to be found. It then hits him that her voice had come from his commlink.

_“Come in, Ordo?”_

Lifting his comms near the bottom of his helmet, he replies, “Talia! Where are you?”

 _“Shh!”_ she scolds him. _“Not so loud.”_

“Why?” he asks, lowering his voice.

_“Because I’m on the ship.”_

“What? How’s the possible?” He returns his gaze to the retreating ship which now looks like a black dot in the sky. His brain cannot fathom what his ears are hearing.

 _“I snuck onboard just as the scrap metal bin slammed into the ship,”_ she replies softly. _“No one saw me.”_

“Are you entering hyperspace?” he questions, not caring that his voice sounds frantic.

 _“Not yet, thank Mandalore,”_ she sighs. From his commlink, he hears a door swooshing open then the sound of bangs and grunts.

“What happened?” he demands.

There is silence for a few seconds before Talia answers, _“Just took out two guards in the cargo hold. They were watching Vandar.”_

“So, he’s with you?”

A beeping noise rings in the air next to him. Recognizing it as the dome-like holoprojector and communicator that Talia had given him weeks ago, he holsters his pistol and yanks out the device. He presses a green button on its side, and instantly, the tech’s domed top splits into four pieces before retracting into its metal body. Then, a blue hologram flickers on, revealing a kneeling Talia. While she is holding Vandar in one arm, she has her other extending in front of her, her hand wrapped around her Imagecaster.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that both of his companions appear to be unharmed. Vandar notices him, and his three-fingered hand reaches out for his guardian. The impractical gesture makes the Mandalorian’s chest warm up.

 _“IG,”_ Talia says into her Imagecaster, _“do you read me?”_

 _“Loud and clear, Angel,”_ he hears the man on the other end reply. _“What are your orders?”_

In a quiet and calm voice, she tells the Guard, “ _Contact Lieutenant Lance Ryk’ken and give him access to the Veejay Weapons Tower.”_

_“Copy that, Angel. But why?”_

_“Just do it!”_ she hisses.

Her holo-image disappears for a moment, and the Mandalorian feels his fingers tighten their hold around his holoprojector. Thankfully, his friend appears again. He cannot tell if she relocated or not, but he does notice that she is now sitting cross-legged and is holding Vandar in her lap.

“Talia, what’s the plan?” he practically orders her. “What are you up to?”

 _“Shh!_ _They don’t know I’m onboard, and I’d like to keep it that way,”_ she rebukes him. _“I moved into a storage compartment. There’s no way I can get to the controls or sabotage the ship._ Firepit _’s crawling with men.”_ She takes in a sharp breath before quickly adding, _“We don’t have time. I overheard some of the men say that during the fight a stray shot damaged some circuits. That’s why we haven’t jumped into hyperspace. But they’re fixing it while we speak, and I can’t stop them without risking the baby’s safety.”_

“So, why do you need the Lieutenant to get to a weapons tower?” he asks, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He begins running towards the turbolift.

 _“Lieutenant_ _Ryk’ken is being summoned,”_ the IG member informs them over the comms. _“And we are preparing a terminal for him to work on.”_

“Kex, talk to me!” the Mandalorian demands, his voice firm. “Don’t do anything reckless. Do you hear me?” He enters the elevator, and the doors close behind him. “Whatever stunt you have in mind, scrap it. Make Onderon help you!”

 _“Dacob tied things up tight, Ordo,”_ she says, and her eyes give him a hard look. _“No one’s allowed to stop this ship from leaving the planet.”_

Before he can say anything or even command the lift to take him to the ground floor, a young voice interrupts them: _“Lieutenant_ _Ryk’ken reporting for duty. IG has apprised me of the situation.”_

Relief flashes across Talia’s blue face, and her image flickers. _“Lance, I have a job for you. Listen carefully: I need you to shoot_ Firepit _. It’s the ship I’m on.”_

“What?!” the Mandalorian barks the same time he hears the Lieutenant exclaim, _“No way! You’ll die!”_

 _“Not if you aim for the right rear thruster and shoot just left of it,”_ Talia explains in a tone that sounds like a general commanding her troops.

“Talia! This is insane!”

 _“Quiet, Ordo!”_ She sends him a glare. _“Lance, you can do this. You’re the best marksman I’ve ever trained. You won’t miss."_

_“But I might—”_

_“You won’t.”_ Her eyes widen in alarm, and before the Mandalorian can ask her what is wrong, she says to Lance, _“Hurry! Aim where I told you! I can hear them working on the hyperdrive!”_

As the Mandalorian orders the turbolift to take him to the roof, he tries to reason with his reckless friend: “Listen to me, Talia. Stop this! You’re going to get you and the kid killed. There’s got to be another way.”

The baby begins to whimper, no doubt sensing the high emotions swirling in this conversation. Talia shushes Vandar and snuggles him closer to her.

 _“We’re running out of time,”_ she tells him. _“They’ll figure out that he’s gone and their men are dead. They’ll search the ship, and I can’t hide in here forever. Whatever it takes, I won’t let them take Vandar. And I have no idea where they’re headed!”_

“To Nevarro! That’s where the Guild is!” he snaps just as the turbolift opens its door to the hangar’s roof. He exits the metal contraption.

_“You can’t know that for certain! The Nikto said the Guild’s keeping this quiet. More so than normal.”_

_“Almost ready,”_ Lance informs them, his voice sounding nervous. The Mandalorian strides across the roof and stares at the sky.

 _“I need you to shoot on my mark,”_ Talia instructs the Lieutenant. _“At the right moment, the ship will be forced to land on Dxun. Its gravity will pull us down to its surface.”_

 _“The Viceroy is sending people to your location, Traxell,”_ the IG member chimes in, but he ignores the other man.

 _“Got it!”_ Lance announces, and the declaration forms a pit in the middle of the Mandalorian’s stomach.

“If you let him do this, Kex,” he lectures his friend, “then you’ll crash-land. How do you expect to survive that?”

Her dark eyes soften. She gives him a small yet comforting smile, and he feels anything but assured. _“Everything will be okay,”_ she tells him, her voice strong and confident. _“I promise you, Ordo, that Vandar will make it out of this alive. Just trust me . . . please?”_ A heartbeat passes before she says, _“Lance!”_

 _“I am ready,”_ quotes the young man. However, to the Mandalorian’s ears, the Lieutenant does not sound very ready. _“I, I’m not sure about this,_ ba’vodu* _.”_

 _(_ * _pronounced: BAH-vod-oo; translation: “aunt” or “auntie”)_

 _“Just breathe,”_ she says, her tone patient and calm. _“Keep your eye on the target, all right? On my mark. One, two, now!”_

The Mandalorian lifts his eyes to the blue sky. About two miles away from his position, he sees a long, green laser bolt emerge from a tower. He watches it disappear out of sight, its aim undoubtedly pointed in the direction of _Firepit_ , which has by this time fled Onderon’s atmosphere and is flying into space.

Less than a second later, he hears a small explosion over the comms before spotting a yellow spark in the sky, its shape reminding him of a flower. The next thing he hears are alarms blaring through his holoprojector, and he focuses his attention back onto his companion trapped on the damaged ship.

 _“We’re fine, Vandar,”_ she whispers to the gifted baby. She places a soft kiss on his wrinkly head. _“Good job, Lance,”_ she praises her “nephew” with a proud smile. _“Your excellent marksmanship hasn’t destroyed the ship like you feared it would.”_

The Mandalorian simply stares at his friend’s blue image. She seems so calm right now despite the trembling mechanical noises he hears coming from _Firepit_. Over the loud screeches of the ship’s sirens, the Izizian Guard reports that Talia is indeed heading for Dxun. But what sparks his interest is being notified that another ship, which had been hovering over Onderon, is flying after _Firepit_.

Figuring out that this new spacecraft must contain more bounty hunters and hired henchmen sends a twist in the Mandalorian’s stomach. If Talia and the kid survive the crash, then they were bound to be captured, and the realization prompts him into action. He heads back to the turbolift with the intention of returning to the _Crest_ so he can fly over to the Demon Moon himself.

And Talia chooses this moment to call out to him.

 _“Ordo?”_ she says, her voice sounding fearful for the first time since Vandar was kidnapped.

Something inside his chest tightens, and his feet waver as they lead him to the elevator. If Talia is hoping he can offer her words of comfort or encouragement, she will be sorely disappointed because he does not know what to tell her.

His brain zaps him with a phrase, and before he can stop himself, Clan Kex’s motto escapes his lips: “I am ready.”

A smile spreads across Talia’s lips, which he finds comforting for some reason. While he enters the turbolift, he hears IG inform her, _“There’s a severe storm on Dxun, Angel.”_

She either ignores the other man or does not want to waste precious time talking to him. Instead, her eyes search the Mandalorian’s visor in the same way that makes him feel that she is looking past his helmet and armor and down to his soul.

 _“Come and get us as soon as you can. Okay, my_ ori’vod* _?”_

 _(_ * _pronounced: OH-ree-VOD; translation: “special friend” here, but can also translate to “big brother” and “older brother”)_

_“Brace for impact, Angel, in eight, seven . . .”_

His throat feels tight, and he hardly registers that the turbolift has reached the ground floor. Clearing his throat, he vows, “I will . . . _vod_ *. But this shouldn’t be happening.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: vohd; translation: “comrade” / “mate,” also used for “sister” and “brother”)_

_“Four, three . . .”_

_“But it is,”_ she softly tells him. _“As your Tribe says, ‘This is the—’”_

Her voice is cut short, and her holographic image flickers off. Crackling noises fill up the comms before a deafening silence rings through the air.

* * *

Talia's Attire:


	10. Pomp and Politics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pleased that I was able to post a day early! This is for those who left me a comment and expressed their wishes for a quick update :) Enjoy!

Chapter XI: Pomp and Politics

_Time after Dxun crash: 1 minute_

_“Angel has fallen!”_ the voice from his commlink shouts with alarm. _“I repeat: The Angel of Onderon has fallen!”_

More voices from the Izizian Guard crackle with questions and orders and exclamations. Their words bounce off the insides of the turbolift, the metal walls trapping the fear and confusion like a cage. And all the Mandalorian can do for the time being is stand there, his boots glued to the floor. His gloved hand firmly holds his commlink as if gripping the tech tighter will wake him up from this nightmare.

A part of him whispers that neither Vandar nor Talia had survived the crash on Dxun and that when he reaches the site, he will find a burning ship with scorched bodies unrecognizable to the human eye. But a stronger part of his brain reminds him that Talia has probably been through worse than a landing gone wrong. She is a warrior, reckless but clever, and if she survived the Clone War when she was a pre-teen, then she can get out of this mess alive, too.

 _“Traxell,”_ the IG member calls out to him via commlink. _“Reinforcements have arrived at Fambaas Hangar. They have taken your bounty hunter prisoner into custody, and they have orders to clean up the scene in Section D.”_

Pulling himself from his chaotic brain, he replies, “Copy that,” before stashing away his comms and exiting the turbolift.

The doors hiss open, and he is greeted with two squads from the Onderonian Guard. Their dull gray armors clank against their blasters and lances as they jog across the first level of the hangar. Some send him a nod as he briskly stalks past them, but he does not return them. His mind is set on one thing and one thing only: get to the _Crest_ and fly to Dxun _right now_.

“Traxell!” a man behind the Guard shouts, waving him over.

At first, he wants to ignore him because he has no time for chitchat, but when he recognizes the man as Captain Krayt of the Royal Guard, he decides that talking to him may prove useful. So, he changes his trajectory and steers himself towards the Captain and a handful of soldiers.

Krayt, a man in his mid-thirties, looks the same since Cholganna; however, he appears to be more relaxed on his homeworld—and, not to mention, more in control of the situation at hand. His hazel eyes are determined, and a dismal expression is etched across his tanned skin. He nods at the Mandalorian as the gap closes between them.

“I’m to personally escort you to the Unifar Temple,” Krayt announces, his Onderonian accent light and professional.

“Why?” he asks suspiciously.

“I don’t question my superiors, Traxell. I just follow orders.”

“I can’t,” the Mandalorian states. “I’ve gotta go to Dxun.”

He brushes past Krayt, but the Captain’s men block his way to the exit. When he tries to go around them, powerful hands grip his arms. Instinctively, he attempts to brush them off, yet their hold on him grows stronger. Without a moment’s hesitation, he elbows one man in the ribs then uses his suddenly free hand to punch the other guard square in the jaw. The rapid movements send a spike of pain to his ribs, reminding him of his fight in the alley, but he pushes it aside and focuses on the task at hand.

Before he can plan his next move, he is surrounded by a squad of Onderonian guards, their weapons pointing at him. Automatically, his hand goes to his holstered pistol, but as he glances around him, he knows the odds are against him.

“Don’t make me use lethal force,” he hears Krayt tell him, and he detects a hint of an apology in his voice. “I have my orders. Come willingly, or I’ll have to restrain you.”

“I promised your Lady Talia that I’d go after her,” he explains, trying to keep a growl out of his voice. “She has a kid with her. _My_ kid. And I need to leave. Now.”

“And you will,” Krayt says patiently. He waves at his men to lower their weapons. “But first, your presence is requested at the Temple. The sooner you come with us, the sooner you can leave for Dxun. Okay?”

Again, he checks his surroundings. He is about four yards away from the door that will lead him to the exit. If he pretends to be compliant, maybe he can slip away from Krayt when they get outside. He doubts the Captain will have an entire squad consisting of a dozen men watching him, so he nods at Krayt, who seems pleased by his cooperation.

The circle of soldiers surrounding him disperses, but he is disappointed when he notices that half of them flank him on every side. Though Krayt walks beside him like an equal, he is undoubtedly leading the way. The Mandalorian is not so sure he can evade the gazes of seven men, yet he will be dishonoring his promise to Talia if he does not at least try.

Once they have exited Fambaas Hangar and its offices, the fading sun greets him. Approaching the early evening hours of the day, the sky has a tint of orange and yellow. He sees his Red Nikto prisoner guarded by four men, and his ears pick up a report to Krayt that one of the gunmen from _Firepit_ is still alive, though injured.

“Good job,” the Captain says into his commlink. “Make sure he _stays_ alive. Send him and our other prisoner to the Temple as soon as possible. And let’s see if we can identify those other men.”

The Mandalorian spies the transport that he had commandeered, and he takes this moment to inform Krayt of the deal he made with the vehicle’s owner. The Captain listens attentively, which makes the Mandalorian hope that his attention will be focused on something else. But he is disappointed when Krayt assigns one of his junior officers to handle the commandeered transport and to return it back to its owner.

Before the Mandalorian can concoct a plan to escape the Captain and his men, a transport ship—which reminds him of the ones he had seen on Cholganna—suddenly appears from the sky and lands several feet away from them. Its engines roar with life, its thrusters causing dirt to swirl through the air like a small dust storm. The side door of the transport ship opens, and a soldier inside beckons the group to join him.

At first, the Mandalorian stands where he is, his boots firmly planted on the cobblestone road, but a forceful shove in the back makes him stagger forward. He sends the man responsible a death-glare and tells him to watch it.

“Come along, Traxell!” Krayt shouts over the engine’s noise. He signals to his men, and the soldiers nudge the Mandalorian closer to the small ship. Surrounded again, he has no choice but to comply.

Frustration simmers his blood as he finds a place to sit down. Much to his annoyance, the Onderonians steer him into the back of the transport so they can keep an eye on him. Some stand while others sit, but they all give him a wide berth. The side-door slides close, and he can feel the transport lift into the air.

“Don’t think you’re being singled-out,” Krayt tells him in a poor attempt to make things feel less serious than they really are. “I know Lieutenant Ryk’ken is also heading to the Temple. And our other two prisoners will be joining us soon.”

The information had been mentioned off-handedly and was, to the Mandalorian, carelessly phrased. _“Other two prisoners.”_ Is he now considered one, too? But why? If anything, he should be thanked for fighting beside Onderon’s beloved Angel. Yet he might somehow be blamed for her current situation on the Demon Moon. Him and Lance Ryk’ken. Perhaps, the young lieutenant has also been “arrested” for ignoring his father’s orders to leave _Firepit_ alone. After all, the kid was the one who had shot the ship out of the atmosphere, despite the fact that he was just following Talia’s orders.

The thought makes him dwell on his friend and the child that she is, hopefully, still protecting. He clenches his fists. _He_ should be the one stranded on Dxun waiting for _her_ to get him. The gifted alien is _his_ responsibility, _his_ concern. For the second time today, he asks himself what kind of guardian is he. Although he trusts Talia with the child’s welfare, he still feels guilty for putting her in the position of babysitting under such dangerous circumstances. But then, she really has grown quite attached to Vandar, and something tells him that she would be just as restless and frustrated as he is if their positions were reversed.

 _“I promise you, Ordo,”_ she had told him, _“that Vandar will make it out of this alive.”_ And it suddenly hits him that she had never promised to survive the ordeal along with the baby. He curses inwardly, knowing that it was just something she _would_ do.

He is so engulfed by his thoughts that he does not pay attention to how much time has passed. Before he knows it, the transport stills and opens up its doors. He follows the soldiers out, and he hears Krayt order them to escort the Mandalorian to the palace while he waits for the prisoner transport to arrive.

With his mind on automatic pilot mode, the Mandalorian trails behind his armored chaperons. They walk into the Temple, down hallways, through rooms, and up some stairs. The marble columns, floors, and walls—all white with splashes of grey running through the smooth stone like veins—look duller than his last visit to the palace. The cheerful patterns along the hallways seem somber, and the golden pillars standing tall in the north side of the palace do not appear to be as remarkable as before.

After a while they enter into a large room somewhere at the top level. Its high ceiling reminds him of a cone, and he realizes that he is in one of the Temple’s towers. The chamber is empty of people and is almost eerily quiet, which allows him to survey this grand setting.

An impressive holotable about five feet in diameter is positioned in the center of the room with one-seater benches surrounding all around it. He can spy projectors embedded in the ceiling, side-tables covered with data-pads, and a thick rug covering most of the floor. As he walks further into the chamber, he notices that his guards do not stop him since they are blocking the only way out of the room. There is a sense of reverence hovering in the air, and the marble walls seem cold, hard, and calculated. It is then that he realizes this is some kind of Council and War Room.

Footsteps coming from behind him approach. From the way the boots seem to march onto the floor, the Mandalorian figures that the newcomer is on a mission. He turns around, hoping that Lieutenant Ryk’ken has arrived, but his blood boils when he sees that it is his father.

Viceroy Ryk’ken is striding towards him, his usual grim expression chiseled on his dark-skinned face like granite. Not being able to stop himself, the Mandalorian meets the other man half the distance between the holotable and door, raises his right fist, and gives him a solid punch on his jaw. Ryk’ken grunts on impact and instinctively turns away, massaging his chin. The Onderonian guards run to aid him, but not before the bounty hunter tries to land a second punch. This time, Ryk’ken is prepared for him because he blocks the attack with his forearm and swings his free hand straight for the Mandalorian’s ribs. Seeing this coming, the bounty hunter moves into the punch, and before Ryk’ken’s fist can even make an impact on his body, he gives the Viceroy a headbutt.

Unfortunately, the cracking sound of a skull—compliments of pure Beskar—is not as loud as he wanted because the members of the Onderonian Guard have intervened by that point and pulled him away from Ryk’ken, saving their superior from receiving a serious head injury. With a frustrated grunt, the bounty hunter jerks against his captors.

“This is all your fault, you son of a Bantha!” he snarls at the Viceroy.

The guards force him to his knees and order him to put his hands behind his head. He hardly registers complying as he glares daggers at Ryk’ken. The warrior side of him is itching to knock that miserable traitor so hard that his snobby Dxunian ancestors will feel it from beyond the grave.

“You let this happen,” he barks at Ryk’ken.

“What are you talking about?”

“You were protecting the bounty hunters!” he accuses, his muscles trembling with fury. “And you let them escape with my kid and Talia onboard!”

“Is this true, _Buir_?” Lance asks his father. The bounty hunter had not noticed the young man’s entrance, nor that of a few Mandos who have accompanied him. Yet he could care less if any of them appeared out of thin air.

The Viceroy signals for his guards to release the bounty hunter. As he yanks his captors’ hold from him and shoots to his feet, he notices Ryk’ken turn away from both him and his son.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he murmurs to himself.

When the quiet words confirm his suspicions of the Viceroy’s involvement, the bounty hunter makes a beeline for the him again. While he rushes towards Ryk’ken with the intent on pummeling the Clan Leader to his heart’s content, he notices that Lance does not bother to stop him. Instead, the young lieutenant wearing shiny, blood-red armor and his Mandos cover him, trying to keep the alarmed guards at bay.

As the bounty hunter reaches for Ryk’ken’s shoulder, the man turns around unexpectedly. His pale green eyes widen in alarm, and the bounty hunter has half a mind to tackle that good-for-nothing politician to the marble floor. But he decides at the last second to gift the Viceroy with another hard punch to the jaw. Much to his dismay, his attack is blocked with a strong forearm, and before he knows it, he and Ryk’ken enter into an unofficial Mandalorian Fighting Circle.

The Viceroy sends a blow to his ribs, which sends a sharp pain across the bounty hunter’s chest. In retaliation, he copies the action. He is so full of rage and almost hatred for his opponent that he barely registers the echoes of grunts, boots, and fists coming from behind him, telling him that a fight had broken out between the Mandos and the Onderonians. Time escapes him amongst the punches and death grips, and he can feel something inside him reveling in this release of suppressed energy and heart-pounding adrenaline.

“Enough!” a loud voice shouts above the ruckus.

The bounty hunter, along with everyone else in the room, freezes at the sound of the accent-free voice that demands obedience and is coated with authority. He turns around and feels his eyes widen when he spots Kavan Tor, Regent of Onderon, father of King Ridha, husband of former Queen Thea, and Heir to the Clan Ordo Chieftain. The titles spit out of the bounty hunter’s brain like lightning, and they seem to make the other man more intimidating as Tor pins everyone in the room with a reprimanding glare.

All the men respectfully bow or salute by pounding their forearms to their Beskar breast-plates as the Regent marches further into the Council Room—all except for the Mandalorian bounty hunter. Tor is _not_ his leader even though they both hail from Tribe Ordo. Nor does it matter that he has done a lot to preserve their culture here on Onderon. Tor will have to do something to earn the bounty hunter’s reverence before he bows to a well-respected stranger.

He looks older than his forty-seven years; it seems ruling Onderon has shaved half a decade off of him. His olive-toned skin seems pale, and his green eyes—the shade of a jungle—survey the men with a hard, calculating gaze. His sharp jawline is clenched as he focuses on one soldier at a time down his large nose. The bright lights in the room illuminate a thin, vibroblade scar that stretches diagonally across from his forehead to his temple. His dark brown hair is tightly curled atop his head and is peppered with gray. As he cranes his neck, sweeping his attention across the room, the bounty hunter spies a tattoo of the Mythosaur skull in black ink branded permanently in his skin. Although he is about an inch shorter than the bounty hunter, Tor has an intimidating presence radiating off of him.

The Regent’s armor, he notices, is as dark as midnight with golden borders etched in an angular design. Underneath, he is wearing a burgundy tunic with black trousers and boots. His helmet is fastened to a belt that also has clipped to it a fancy-looking blaster pistol. Half of his chest-plate is engraved with a gold feather-like design; however, parts of his armor are either scratched or chipped. Instead of having these marks and damages repaired, the bounty hunter thinks that Tor is proud to have earned them and allows them to boast of his exploits and combat experiences.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Regent demands more than asks, and the men stand at full attention. “I’ve been told the minimum of the situation.”

“What do you know so far, my Lord?” Ryk’ken wonders aloud.

“Only that there’s been a disturbance about twenty miles away from here,” Tor states crisply. “And that Talia somehow crash-landed on Dxun with a horde of mercs.” He green eyes land on the bounty hunter. “I remember you. Traxell, isn’t it? Talia brought you to my daughter’s celebration.”

The man in question nods before sending a glare at Ryk’ken.

“I assume you’re involved with what happened,” Tor says to him. “After all, you’re Talia’s bodyguard. Explain the situation to me.”

So, for the next few minutes both the bounty hunter and Lieutenant Ryk’ken give a brief summary of the roles they played that resulted in Talia and Vandar’s unexpected trip to the Demon Moon. They also mention the capture of two prisoners from the _Firepit_ crew who are currently being assessed and interrogated by Captain Krayt.

Meanwhile, Tor listens to them attentively and motions for them all to join him around the grand holotable. He turns it on and flicks a few switches. Lance is given permission to access the table, and he uses it to pull up a map of Fambaas Hangar, the area of Iziz surrounding it, and the recorded footage of _Firepit_ ’s landing on Dxun.

“We could’ve stopped them,” the bounty hunter says of the Nikto men and their accomplices. “But the hangar had orders from Viceroy Ryk’ken to leave the hunters alone.” Pointing to the man responsible, he continues, “ _He_ was protecting them!”

Tor, his expression reserved yet tense, glances at the Viceroy. “That’s quite an accusation, Dacob. Do you deny it?”

“No.”

“Then, _why_?”

The silver-armored Mandalorian watches Ryk’ken’s eyes dart around the room as he shifts his feet uncomfortably. “I would like to have a word in private,” he hears him petition.

After a couple of seconds, Tor dismisses the guards, leaving himself, Ryk’ken, Lance, and the bounty hunter in the room. It seems fitting that only Mandalorians should be discussing this matter since one of their own has been stranded on a Mando moon. But the bounty hunter feels that this is a complete waste of time, especially _his_ time. He does not belong in this political world with its pomp, formalities, and courtesies. Vandar and Talia are alone, probably surrounded by the enemy while the four of them talk about what has already happened.

“I admit,” Ryk’ken begins, “that I allowed bounty hunters to dock at Fambaas Hangar and that I was . . . making their stay here easier. I was promised they were here to take him—” He nods at the man in silver armor. “—into custody for breaking their Guild Code.”

“And why would you even consider working with them?” Tor queries, his voice hard and disapproving.

The other man stands up straighter and lifts his chin an incher higher. “It’s because I didn’t trust Talia with Traxell,” he explains, which makes the bounty hunter shake his head in exasperation. “I wanted to protect her. Even from herself.”

“Admit it, Ryk’ken,” he goads. “You were jealous.”

Although the Viceroy does not confirm the accusation, he does not even deny it. If anything, he looks ashamed of his actions. Out of the corner of his eye, the bounty hunter sees Lance turn away from this awkward confession. He also hears Tor sigh in frustration, which makes him wonder if this is not the first time that Ryk’ken’s attraction to Talia has been either a disagreement or a simple conversation between them.

“So,” the Regent slowly says through tight lips, “you allowed bounty hunters to come into Iziz and bring harm to Talia, a Royal Advisor _and_ the godmother to the King, just because you were afraid that she was getting too close to Traxell?”

“No!” the dark-skinned man nearly shouts. The question must have sounded as ridiculous to him as it did to the bounty hunter. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. _She_ wasn’t supposed to be involved, much less get hurt,” Ryk’ken defends, sincerity in his voice. “I was assured that the bounty hunters were just going to capture Traxell and haul him back to the Guild. They were supposed to leave Talia and his kid out of it.”

The bounty hunter snorts at the naïve man. “Well, I have to break it to you, Ryk’ken: they were trying to kill us. Both me _and_ Kex.”

Hearing him use her surname, the Viceroy squints at him, confused. He opens his mouth, but Lance interrupts. “Then what was the original plan?”

All eyes turn to the young lieutenant who has been quiet these past few minutes. Lance has lighter skin than his father and is—to the bounty hunter—much better looking with his round face and dimpled cheeks. With his brown eyes and black, buzz-cut hair, Lance appears to be no older than eighteen. The realization of his age stuns the bounty hunter as he finally takes a moment to survey, with a thorough gaze, the young man whom Talia had so much faith in making a nearly impossible shot.

Lance’s blood-red armor shines with pride and commitment; it is smooth save for a few scratches on the lower section of his chest-plate. His helmet is tucked to his side, and he fidgets a little when he feels the weight of three older men’s gazes fixed upon him. But the bounty hunter finds himself respecting the kid more than his old man.

“I granted them access to Fambaas Hangar,” the bounty hunter hears Ryk’ken answer. All eyes return to him. “It was about a week ago. I was told they were to going tail Traxell so they could find the right time to snatch him.”

 _I guess,_ he thinks to himself, remembering the time when he ran into the Niktos four days ago, _they didn’t grab me back then because they wanted the baby and Talia, too._

“I didn’t know where they were staying or how many there were,” Ryk’ken continues. “My part was to make sure their ship and Fambaas were undisturbed. And that they had clear access to leave Onderon whenever they chose.”

As the bounty hunter catches Tor press his lips tightly together, as if to discipline his mouth from snapping at the Viceroy, he hears Lance standing next to him ask, “How could you, _Buir_?”

His father looks even more guilty, especially since his own son had not only been made aware of his mistakes but was also dragged into them. “I was trying to do the right thing, Lance. Even if how I did it is against my personal code,” he quietly says. “It’s been no secret to you that your aunt Talia means a lot to me. I would do anything to protect her.”

“I don’t think she’ll want your version of protection,” the bounty hunter scowls at him. “Not since she knows that you were working against us.”

“Let’s see if we can learn more about these men,” Tor interrupts as he presses a few buttons on the table. A holo-image of a man in Onderonian armor appears before them. The Regent commands him, “Find out everything you can about the crew who were docked at Fambaas Hangar. Their ship’s the _Firepit_. And question all of the employees at once!” After receiving an affirmative and a salute, the hologram disappears, and Tor asks his Viceroy, “How did you know how to reach out to the Guild?”

Frustrated because this is taking too long, the bounty hunter snaps, “Is that really important? My kid and Talia are on Dxun.” He points to the holographic image of the moon. “And they’re with who knows how many other hunters and mercs. We need to rescue them. _Now_.”

“We can’t,” Lance says beside him. “I want to get her as much as you, but they landed right in the middle of a severe storm.” Following a few key strokes, the young man enhances the projection of Dxun. He then does something to the computer that highlights a heavy storm system before pointing to the crash sites of both _Firepit_ and the other vessel that landed on the moon. “That smaller ship didn’t stand a chance, and it crashed, too. You’ll end up just like them.”

Not exactly pleased with either Lance’s report or what his eyes are telling him, the bounty hunter barks out, “Then contact people on Dxun. Tell them to send out a search and rescue party.”

He sees Tor shake his head, but it is Ryk’ken who answers: “The Mandos on Dxun live on the other side of the moon. Besides, Talia really doesn’t need help to survive the terrain. She’ll take cover here.” He waves a hand at a large stone structure sitting in the middle of the jungle, its charcoal top peeking over the trees.

“But that place is haunted,” Lance argues, his brown eyes wide. “Would she actually risk that? Even with a baby?”

A chill suddenly fills the atmosphere of the room, and the bounty hunter glances at his fellow Mandalorians. “What’s the matter?” he asks, obviously not aware of this part of their history. “What is that place?”

He studies a stone building with a lone tower, its entire structure tall and crumbling from old age. It is nestled in a crooked-looking valley with thick jungle surrounding it, giving it a wide berth of a few yards. It seems that even nature itself would not dare grow too close to the ancient piece of architecture with its deteriorating statues and pointy spire. There is something about that place, even in hologram-form, that makes the bounty hunter’s gut twist in anxiety.

“This,” Lance explains in a low voice, “is the Tomb of Freedon Nad. Long ago, he was a dark sorcerer. Our people, Mandos and Onderonians, haven’t stepped foot near that place in hundreds of years, _at least_. It’s cursed. Whoever goes there, goes insane. That’s why our Clans have moved to the other side of Dxun.”

“Even if Talia wasn’t near there,” Ryk’ken adds, “no one would risk getting stuck in a storm this bad. Not even for one of our own. The rain will do them more harm than good.”

Despite the fact that the Tomb gives him the creeps, the bounty hunter is more than willing to push the feeling aside. He does not care if Vandar and his friend crash-landed on a planet infested with witches like Dathomir once was. His closest companions need his help right now. He promised her.

“If you’re all too afraid of a little rain and superstition,” he almost sneers at them, “then I’ll go myself.”

While in the process of turning away from the holotable, he feels a firm hand on his arm. He wrenches himself free and sends his human obstacle a glare that, unfortunately, does not kill him.

“Touch me again, and you’re dead,” he growls at Ryk’ken.

“If you go right now, Traxell, you’ll crash yourself and your ship. And what good would you be to her?”

“I’ll take my chances,” he bites back. “I’m more than a decent pilot. And why do you care?”

“I don’t!” the other man snaps. “But you need to think about this, _beroya_ *! You’ll be worse off than them.” He jerks his thumb to the two crash sites behind him. “You don’t know the terrain or the beasts or anything about Dxun.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: bair-OY-ah; translation: “bounty hunter”)_

“Unlike you,” the bounty hunter retaliates, stepping right up to the Viceroy, “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. My kid is stranded on that wet-blanket of a moon! And so is Talia!”

“Don’t you think I know that?! Talia will probably never forgive me for—”

“I can care less if she forgives you, you son of a—”

“Peace! Both of you!” Tor scolds them, his olive skin growing dark. He grabs the Clan Leader by the arm and pulls him back a step. “Dacob, how did you make contact with the hunters and the Guild?”

For a full second, Ryk’ken continues to glare at his silver-armored rival, but he forces himself to answer his superior. “I didn’t. I was just alerted of their presence and the part I had to play. It was Bezden Cass who set it all up.”

“And why am I not surprised?” the bounty hunter sarcastically retorts, remembering how chummy the two seemed during the Princess’ birthday party.

“Why Cass?” Tor queries.

“He was worried about Talia’s alliance with a bounty hunter.”

“And why would he even care about Talia’s friends? We all know they’ve never gotten along.”

Ryk’ken nods in acquiescence. “I was surprised, too. But he said he was concerned that her relationship with Traxell might look bad. That it might stain our new monarchy.”

“And you believed that Bantha fodder?” the bounty hunter scoffs. In his peripheral vision, he sees Lance subtly shake his head in disappointment.

“He made some good points,” the Viceroy defends, his voice rising in volume a notch or two. “You don’t exactly look trustworthy, _beroya_. Cass offered to do some digging on you because he disliked you as much as I do. But,” he says to his Regent, “Cass didn’t have a secure terminal to do it on, so I let him use mine.”

“And when was this?” Tor asks, crossing his arms.

The Viceroy answers that it happed about a week and half ago. He further reveals that, together, he and Cass discovered that the bounty hunter had broken the Guild’s Code by kidnapping his last quarry: a green-skinned child. Ever since then, the Guild has been looking for them both, which made recruiting the Nikto hunters easy for Cass.

Once Ryk’ken finishes his brief explanation, Tor sends a suspicious glance in the bounty hunter’s direction and asks, “Is what you did true?”

He nods. “In so many words. Except, I did it for the right reasons. I saved the kid from being a lab experiment.” He pauses before adding, “It was the honorable thing to do.”

An approving nod is sent his way before Tor motions for his Viceroy to continue his story. Ryk’ken says Cass hinted that he still had some underworld connections from the Imperial Era that would be able to get him in touch with some bounty hunters from the Guild. After his contact came through, Cass had communicated to the Nikto hunters and told them of the disgraced bounty hunter’s location.

“From what Cass told me,” Ryk’ken shares, “the Guild would be grateful to restore their honor and avenge their Code. As if they have any, those backstabbing fiends.”

The insult, though muttered, automatically stings the bounty hunter, and he warns through a tight jaw, “Watch it, Ryk’ken.”

“So Dacob,” Tor asks, waving a dismissive hand to both men, “you compromised your views? For a woman?” He sounds just as annoyed as the bounty hunter is, yet the latter does not like Talia being referred to as a mere “woman.”

“I didn’t want anything to do with the Guild,” the accused man argues. “But Talia was blinding herself to Traxell’s situation.”

“She knew I saved the kid,” the bounty hunter reveals. “And that I’m not on good terms with the Guild.”

“I didn’t think Talia was thinking things through. And I still don’t,” Ryk’ken conveys to the Regent. “But I didn’t see the harm in having other hunters come and clean up their own mess. Cass assured me the Guild wouldn’t care about Traxell’s child. Talia wasn’t even mentioned in our plan. That must’ve all been Cass’ doing.”

Tor holds up a hand, silencing him for now. His rich green eyes look at the Clan Leader hard. Beside the bounty hunter, he can sense Lance fidgeting with some controls on the holotable. If Ryk’ken gets fired from his duties right in front of his son, the bounty hunter will actually feel sorry for Lance. No kid should see their parent humiliated and disgraced, even if the parent is the jealous Viceroy.

“Dacob,” the Regent says, a reprimand coloring his accent-free voice, “your actions will be dealt with later. We’re going to have a long discussion about all of this. But for now, we need to clean up your mess.”

As he turns to the holotable, the bounty hunter watches Ryk’ken bow his head at Tor. The gesture is full of humility and gratitude, but he can see shame making his broad shoulders sag. Beside him, he notices Lance relax after being tense for the past few minutes.

Tor pulls him from his observations by contacting someone from the Royal Guard to escort Cass to the Council Room. He also requests for Qasim Nader to join them since he is Cass’ employer. After issuing both orders, Tor hails Captain Krayt, asking for an update on their prisoners.

A hologram of Krayt appears, floating atop the table. He reports that the Red Nikto had been broken during his interrogation, a piece of news that surprises the Mandalorian bounty hunter.

 _“His name’s Nangeen,”_ Krayt informs them. _“It did take a little more persuading to get him talking, but since Lady Talia’s tactics got into his head, Nangeen just needed a little push to cooperate.”_

The Captain relays that the Nikto’s gang is called Black Flame. They were ordered by Lord Nader to kill both Traxell and Talia.

At this, the men in the room glance at one another, but hearing the news startles the bounty hunter. He had thought Nader and Talia had an understanding between them. But unfortunately, he does not have time to say anything because Krayt continues his report.

He reveals that Black Flame was supposed to take the child back to the Guild at some point after they fled Onderon. Their rendezvous with a representative from the Guild would take place on a planet in the Outer Rim: Rishi. The plan was for them to be escorted by another ship they hired, but as they all knew, that ship was the same one that had crash-landed on Dxun shortly after _Firepit_.

“But why not rendezvous with the Guild on Nevarro?” the bounty hunter asks Krayt. He finds it odd that his old boss, Greef Karga, would risk leaving his current planet for one that is swarming half with pirates and half with colonists.

 _“Nangeen said their mission was keeping the Guild out of the loop for now,”_ the Captain explains. He scratches his chin. _“He was mumbling by this point, but from what I got, Black Flame wanted to make as much money from the child as they could. One way was from Lord Qasim—who’s paid them half already.”_

“And the others?” Tor questions, grasping his hands behind his back.

_“The Guild and whoever is the Guild’s original client.”_

“So, it was Nader who’s been behind this,” Ryk’ken says to the Regent.

 _“I believe so,”_ Krayt answers instead. _“Nangeen mentioned something about Cass being their only contact here. And he kept whining about how awful his master has been to him. Nangeen said Cass was a coward who did whatever Nader wanted.”_

“That sounds about right,” Lance mutters to no one in particular.

“Dacob,” Tor instructs, “order for Nader’s arrest. I don’t want him to get wind that we’re onto him and slip through our fingers.”

The Viceroy nods and walks away from them so he can issue the command without interrupting the rest of Krayt’s report.

“Continue, Captain,” Tor says to the holographic man.

Their other prisoner, the one who was dressed in plain-clothes, had been identified as a Kiran, along with the men that Talia and the bounty hunter were able to eliminate. Krayt shares that the man is currently unconscious and is in a Bacta tank due to a severe concussion and an infected blaster wound to the shoulder. According to the doctors, their prisoner should be healthy enough to be awakened and then questioned in less than three hours from now.

“Thank you, Captain,” the Regent praises. “Keep me apprised of his condition and if Nangeen says anything else.”

_“Yes, my Lord. But I think we got all we needed from Nangeen.”_

After giving Tor a respectful bow, Krayt’s image flickers off. Just then, Ryk’ken joins them, claiming that Nader is on his way but that Cass is currently missing.

“Put the Temple on lockdown if you have to,” the Regent practically snaps at him. His tone tells the bounty hunter not to get on Tor’s bad side. “That snake has evaded punishment long enough.” He presses a button on his gauntlet and speaks into it. “Ashta? I want you to run a trace on Qasim Nader’s bank accounts. I’ve been informed that he’s hired bounty hunters to eliminate someone from the Council, and I need proof that it’s true.”

 _“Right away, my Lord,”_ a feminine voice replies before Tor ends the brief communication.

“Lance,” he says to the young lieutenant who has been studying the hologram of the Demon Moon. “Give me an update on Dxun.”

The eighteen-year-old glances at the bounty hunter and sends him an apologetic look. “I’ve been listening to the weather reports.” He uses the computer to magnify the moon. “It’s the severest storm Dxun’s had in years. And . . . it’s predicted to last two days.”

“Two?” the bounty hunter asks, feeling his apprehension for Vandar and Talia double.

Lance nods at him. “It’ll be like this all day tomorrow and should lift by late afternoon the next day.”

“That’s too long.”

“But there’s nothing we can do, Traxell,” Tor says, and the bounty hunter can hear the frown in his voice as they both study Dxun.

“ _Firepit_ and its companion,” Lance continues, “landed about two kilometers away from each other. But if my father’s right, that means Talia will have to trek about three kilometers into the Tomb’s valley and find refuge in the ruins. And the other ship is in her way.”

The news feels as dismal as the storm hammering Dxun. For a moment, the bounty hunter closes his eyes, not being able to bear seeing how far his friend and the kid will have to travel in the rain through enemy territory. But shutting his eyes is a mistake because his mind shows him the last time that he had seen his companions: both appeared like ghosts, blue and fragile, hovering above his hand-held projector. Talia, with a nasty cut along her temple, was holding Vandar close in her lap, and the baby looked scared and on the verge of tears.

He snaps his eyes open and glares at the Demon Moon and its cursed storm. While his muscles tense throughout his body, his gloved hand seeks the comfort of his holster pistol. Feeling the weapon in his grip steadies him far better than any visit to a cantina and its strongest spirits can ever do.

“I agree with you, Dacob,” he hears Tor say when the Viceroy returns to the holotable. “If Talia survived, she’ll find refuge at the Tomb.”

“When we extract her, we won’t be able to land a ship nearby,” Ryk’ken points out. “There isn’t enough room between the Tomb and the jungle.”

“What about there?” the bounty hunter asks. He waves a hand at a clearing on the other side of the valley. From what he can figure, the distance is roughly five kilometers away from the Tomb.

“That looks like the best place to land,” Tor agrees. When he nods, his scar catches the light of the hologram and glows ever so slightly.

Lance clears his throat, and the other men turn to him. “I think a ship can hover here, right over the Tomb’s entrance. Our Mandos with jet-packs can swoop in, clear the area, and find Talia and Traxell’s kid. Then they can all make the trek to the landing zone together.”

“Yes, that will work,” Tor quietly says to himself. From the faraway look in his green eyes, the bounty hunter knows he is picturing the rescue attempt like the rest of the men in the room are doing. “We’ll also have a team clear the crash sites.”

“I’m going,” the bounty hunter declares, his tone daring anyone to object.

“Of course, for your kid,” Ryk’ken dryly comments. “But not alone you’re not. This is an internal matter, too. I’ll be sending my best Mandos with you, including my son.”

Lance looks pleased by the decision, but before he can say anything or even nod, the bounty hunter hears the doors to the Council Room swing open. When they all turn around, he sees that the interruption is due to Nader’s arrival with his armed escort.

From the way the Minister of Trade practically marches across the room, the bounty hunter gets the feeling that he is more than unhappy at being brought in like a criminal. But unlike his fellow Mandalorians, he is not convinced that Nader is involved with the bounty on his, Talia’s, and the baby’s heads—especially not after the truce Talia had made with the Minister over two weeks ago. There was just something about Nader on that particular night that changed Talia’s opinion of him, and even the bounty hunter’s after they talked about it a few days later.

“My Lord,” Nader greets his Regent with a stiff bow. “May I ask as to why I have been summoned and treated with such hostility?”

“As if you don’t know!” Ryk’ken snarls at the other man. The bounty hunter watches as the jealous fool strides towards Nader in an instant and grabs his fancy blue tunic. “You hired bounty hunters to kill Talia!”

“What?!” Nader gasps at the same time Tor orders, “Dacob, stand down!”

With a huff, Ryk’ken obeys as the rest of the men join him and the frazzled Minister. Tor signals for the guards to give them some space.

“Qasim,” he begins, his tone icy. “We’ve been led to believe that you hired Guild hunters to eliminate Traxell and Lady Talia. What say you?”

The Solarian Lord had been straightening out his ruffled tunic, but Tor’s words stop him. His eyes widen, and the puzzled frown on his lips would be almost comical to the bounty hunter if the situation was not so serious.

“What do I say?” Nader chortles, disbelief painting his Onderonian accent. “I say that’s ridiculous. Why would I do any of that, my Lord? I have an understanding with Lady Talia.”

“Oh, you do?” Ryk’ken mocks him. “Everyone knows hostility has always been between the two of you. You couldn’t agree on the color orange!”

“What Dacob fails to mention,” the Regent intervenes, “is that we have a witness that claims you paid for Guild members to wreak havoc on our city, to allow the kidnapping of a child, and to eliminate both Talia and her bodyguard.”

Nader shifts his eyes to the bounty hunter before stating, “Then the witness is lying because I haven’t done any of this. Ask Traxell. He knows I’ve brokered a truce with his mistress.”

“She’s not his mistress,” Ryk’ken barks.

“I wasn’t really her bodyguard,” the bounty hunter explains, rolling his eyes at the Viceroy’s outburst. “It was a cover. She’s just a friend. But Nader’s right,” he says to Tor. “I watched them reach an agreement over a political matter. Talia was . . . impressed with the information Nader brought to her attention.” He sneaks a peek at the Minster, who sends him a nod—of gratitude or agreement, he is not sure. “I don’t think he’s involved,” the bounty hunter adds, yet he does not know if his opinion matters to these politicians.

 _“Lord Kavan?”_ a quiet voice interrupts, originating from the Regent’s scratched gauntlet.

Tor presses a button and raises his built-in comms closer to his mouth. “Yes, Ashta? What have you found?”

 _“You were correct,”_ she states for all to hear. _“Records on Lord Nader’s bank accounts show that he has paid a substantial amount of credits to a group called Black Flame.”_ The woman pauses to take a breath, giving the bounty hunter a moment to watch the Minister’s expression morph from disbelief into horror. Pity pricks him as Ashta continues: _“According to my research, Black Flame is a Nikto bounty hunter group with ties to the Bounty Hunter Guild.”_

“Very good,” Tor says to her, waving the men back around the holotable. “I want you to send your findings to the Council Room.”

 _“Yes, sir.”_ She then ends the transmission.

“I didn’t do this!” Nader declares, his tone hard. “I didn’t authorize any of this. My Lord, if you would just let me access the terminal, I can find out _who_ did.”

“My money’s on Cass,” the bounty hunter whispers to Lance, and the young man nods in agreement.

All eyes are on the Regent. He squints at Nader, his sharp jawline looking as if it had been chiseled from marble. When he nods, Ryk’ken opens his mouth to protest but is silenced by a glare.

In the next two minutes, Nader goes to work, typing away furiously as he accesses his bank accounts. Like a man on a mission, he enters pin numbers and participates in a voice recognition password. His shoulders are tense, and the bounty hunter spies a trickle of sweat trailing down the side of his face.

“There!” the Minister announces. He points to a set of numbers and locations. “Here’s the day this transaction occurred. It happened in Kira City.” There is a finality in his voice, but when he glances at the men around him, he must have seen the blank looks on their faces. He huffs before explaining, “I haven’t stepped foot in Kira City _in months_. The only person who could have accessed it would have been . . .” His voice trails off at the same time his brown eyes widen with revelation.

“Cass,” Lance finishes for him.

“But why?” the Minister whispers. Confusion dominates his expression. “Bezden has been nothing but grateful of his employment with me.”

“He was playing you,” the bounty hunter tells him when no one else does. “Just like he was playing Ryk’ken, the Black Flame, and everyone.”

“We need to find Cass,” Tor says. “But the Royal Guard hasn’t been able to locate him. Where is he, Qasim?”

“He’s, um,” the man with shaggy hair replies. He shakes his head as if to clear away how stunned he is feeling. “He’s visiting his woman. He specifically asked to be excused from his duties today so he can see her.”

“Okay, so where does his girl live?” the bounty hunter presses. He is beyond tired of how slow things are progressing. “How can we find her?”

He is answered by a blink, followed by a puzzled look. Then, Nader cranes his neck to stare at him before saying, “It shouldn’t be too hard, Traxell. She’s Talia’s handmaiden.”

_Gia!_

* * *

Lord Kavan Ordo Tor and Lieutenant Lance Ryk'ken:

The Tomb of Freedon Nadd (from "Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords"):

(I remember when I played KOTOR 2 and when the story moved to Dxun and Nadd's tomb how interesting--and even creepy--it would be to wander through its halls. I just had to insert this ancient place in my story!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's shorter than my other chapters so far. Next one should be longer!
> 
> (Also, if you want to know more about or reacquaint yourself with Lord Kavan Tor, go to the latter section of Chapter 8 of "Bleeding Beskar.")


	11. The Political Waiting Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter, but the next one should be longer. And it may be posted up late next week.

Chapter XI: The Political Waiting Game

_Time after Dxun crash: 1 hour and 23 minutes_

“Gia, where’s Bezden Cass?” Captain Krayt asks the moment the handmaiden is standing before them.

The bounty hunter positions himself off to the side, watching the Onderonian question Gia right in the middle of Dewan Manor’s courtyard. Water sprinkles from the mushroom-like fountain into the pool, reminding him of the rain that is currently hammering Dxun. He glances upward and sees the Demon Moon taunting him from where it hangs in the pink sky.

“Why would _I_ know where he is?” he hears Gia scoff, her mousy brown hair piled in a loose bun. He notices that she has her hands in front of her, one holding onto her wrist in a death grip. Her fair skin looks a few shades lighter than normal as she claims, “Cass means nothing to me.”

“Oh, really?” the Captain replies sarcastically. “Because I have a source that says you and Cass have been spending a lot of time together this past year.”

The bounty hunter keeps his gaze settled on Gia’s expression. A flicker of alarm flashes across her usually shy face. She drops her eyes, focusing on Krayt’s dull gray armor, as she says, “Then your source must be mistaken.”

“I don’t think so,” the Captain retorts. “It’s Lord Qasim Nader.”

At this, Gia snaps her brown eyes at the man in front of her. When Krayt tilts his head at her and sends her a knowing look, that is the moment the bounty hunter knows she will break.

“I, uh, I haven’t seen him since yesterday,” she confesses, her Onderonian accent quivering. “We weren’t planning on meeting today. But why are you looking for him? Is something wrong?”

“Has Cass been acting strange lately?”

“No. I mean, not really. He’s just been more attentive to me during his visit,” she explains. Gia lowers her gaze in a way that reminds the bounty hunter of a young girl being reprimanded by her father about seeing the juvenile delinquent next door.

“Did Lady Talia know about your relationship with Cass?” Krayt questions, his tone firm.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“She didn’t,” the bounty hunter interrupts. Both look at him. “I believe Talia wanted Gia’s personal life to stay that way.”

“She never asked too much about him,” the handmaiden admits. “But she was happy that I found someone.”

“So, why keep your relationship a secret?” the Captain demands, and the bounty hunter stops himself from releasing a scoff. Even _he_ knows the answer.

“Because Lady Talia wouldn’t approve of me seeing a man she detests,” Gia whispers in embarrassment. She lifts up her chin and says in a louder voice, “I know Bezden is selfish and arrogant, but he’s kind and gentle with me. I thought his interest in me was fake. I was sure he was using me so he can get through to my mistress, but he . . . he just wanted _me_ ,” she softly reveals. “He said he’s found roots in Kira City, and he wants me to go with him once he’s settled.”

At the young woman’s confession, Krayt reverts his hazel eyes away from her. Seeing this tempts the bounty hunter to smirk behind his helmet. He figures the good captain is not one to talk about feelings or to listen to someone express theirs. But then, the bounty hunter has no wish to trade places with him.

When they, and a handful of soldiers, were leaving the Council Room at the Unifar Temple, he had stated that Gia needed to be informed that Cass was seducing her for information. But Nader overheard him and intervened, revealing that he did not think the bounty hunter’s assumption to be true. He said he knew that Cass actually did love Gia and that he had been keeping tabs on the couple during their courtship.

 _“How long have you known about them?”_ the bounty hunter asked before he and Krayt left the palace.

 _“From the beginning,”_ the Minister replied matter-of-factually. _“I make it a point to be aware of my employees’ lives.”_

_“And you didn’t think to tell Talia about it?”_

_“Of course not,”_ Nader scoffed. _“I didn’t care once I figured out that Cass genuinely cared for the girl.”_

Now, as he listens to Krayt explain to Gia of her mistress’ current situation and Cass’ suspected involvement, he feels sorry for the girl. Gia’s eyes widen, her expression transitioning from horror to betrayal. He remembers at the Princess’ celebration that Cass had called his woman “divine,” and he realizes that there was true regard for her in his thick accent. But after this interrogation with Gia is over, she will more than likely reevaluate everything Cass had told her and conclude that the former aide really was using her.

“But why would Bezden want to hurt Master Traxell and the baby?” he hears Gia ask the Onderonian captain, her voice thick with emotion. He spies a couple of tears trickling down her cheeks, but she quickly wipes them away. “I know he has no love for my mistress. But why them?”

“We’re still trying to figure that out,” Krayt admits. “But we think it’s because they’re Lady Talia’s guests. Did Cass ever ask you about them?”

Ashamedly, Gia nods. “A few times. But I thought he was just curious about my workload with guests in the house.”

“What did you tell him?” the Captain presses.

“Nothing important. Only that they’re friends of Lady Talia,” she sniffs before clearing her throat. “I said she’s very fond of the baby. Master Traxell and her have grown closer the longer he stays here. And that my Lady hasn’t acted this protective of guests in years.”

 _Yeah. Nothing important, my foot._ The bounty hunter inwardly huffs. _She pretty much made us sound so special to Talia and painted targets on our backs._

Figuring there is nothing else that Gia can say that will interest him, he stalks out of the courtyard and climbs the stairs to the West Wing. He hears Krayt ask the handmaiden more questions but tunes them out. Silence lingers heavily in the air, more so than normal. The Manor seems lifeless without its mistress and Vandar, and he wants to leave as soon as possible. However, he needs to retrieve something before that can happen: his Amban sniper rifle.

After he got that feeling of someone following him, he had returned to the _Crest_ and brought back his prized weapon with him. He snuck out of the Manor later on that night so Talia would see neither it nor him. As far as he knows, he succeeded.

He strides into his lonely suite, its richness and warmth seeming pointless to him now. The room smells of fresh mint, leading him to believe that RUBY—who was sent to the kitchen like a child by Krayt—must have applied new sheets in his bed. But there is no way he is going to be sleeping in ease and comfort on a soft mattress with freshly laundered blankets, not when his companions are stuck on Dxun in the pouring rain.

As he retrieves his rifle from its hiding place, he wonders if the storm raging on the moon had brought cold weather with it. But remembering that Dxun is covered with jungle like Onderon, he guesses it must be humid and warm there.

He straps his weapon behind his back, thinking that Talia and Vandar are probably drenched to the bone with rain. He can imagine the smell of mold wafting in the thick air and the layers of mud clinging to Talia’s trousers and slippers. The mental picture prompts his hand to form into a tight fist. She should have been wearing boots, not that impractical footwear the rest of the Onderonians seem to favor.

He hates this waiting game, this political path that he is being forced to walk down. If he had it his way, he would have flown the _Crest_ to Dxun by this time. Yet, even he knows that it was a reckless plan with a low percentage of survival. His ship is much smaller than the ones that had become victims to the moon’s storm system, but he is impatient to retrieve Vandar and Talia. Although he is duty-bound to each of them, he can feel his bond with them sometimes sit on a cliff of panic whenever he thinks of the danger they are facing.

Quickening his steps, the Mandalorian exits the West Wing and descends the stairs. “You done here?” he calls out to Krayt. Gia is nowhere to be seen; however, R6 is standing beside the Captain.

“I am,” Krayt replies, and the bounty hunter does not miss his hazel eyes surveying his additional weapon. “Lady Talia’s astromech will be coming with us back to the Temple. He can be useful.”

“I don’t see how,” the Mandalorian retorts, which earns him an annoyed chirp from the orange and white bucket of bolts. He ignores R6 and asks the Captain, “Did Gia say anything helpful?”

“Not much after you left. I’ll take it you’re not planning on staying here for the night?” When the Mandalorian tilts his head at him, Krayt simply shrugs. “Just wanted to be sure.” He then waves both him and R6 towards the door. “I just got alerted that our Kiran prisoner might be getting out of his cozy Bacta tank sooner than expected.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“It is,” the Captain says, closing the door behind them.

As they walk back to their parked transport with the droid rolling after them, the Mandalorian asks, “Any update on Dxun’s weather?”

“No. I bet that cursed moon is flooded.”

“Ever been?” he queries, following Krayt into the small ship.

“Once. And that was one time too many for me.”

 _Great,_ the Mandalorian thinks to himself. He wonders how _he_ will rate Dxun when the time comes for him to land there.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Time after Dxun crash: 4 hours_

Night has settled over the city. The Kiran prisoner was not ready to emerge from his Bacta tank like Captain Krayt had hoped. Unfortunately, that meant they had to wait until the Kiran’s full three hours of healing were complete.

Dinner had come and gone, and the Mandalorian found a secluded place to eat the plate that he requested. The food was generous and fancier than anything he had been able to eat in his entire life, but his stomach rebelled at the sight of it. He had a hard time forcing himself to swallow down the bread and a rice-like side dish, let alone the other courses stacked high onto the silver plate. The fresh fruit, on the other hand, was easier to pass through his firm lips, yet his appetite had been pretty much nonexistent. He only ate because he knew his body needed it.

Right now, he is in the Council Room, pacing. Frustration breathes in and out of his lungs. Every hour he has been trying to reach out to Talia on her Imagecaster. Almost all of them do. However, no one has been able to receive any kind of response back. They even tried to hail the two ships that had crash-landed, but to no avail. The bounty hunter thought that reaching out to the fallen vessels was a waste of time, so he focused on contacting Talia instead. So far, he has not gotten a reply. He convinces himself that her comms must have been damaged in the crash, and the blasted weather is not helping matters either. Yet, his brain cannot stop picturing her bronze-rimmed Imagecaster shattered in her lifeless hand.

If Talia can survive this, he tells himself that she can join him and Vandar when the time comes for them to leave Onderon. She asked him this nearly two weeks ago, and he promised to think about it. While he weighed out his options, Talia did not press him for an answer. In fact, she did not bring the subject up again, for which he was grateful for. What concerned him were the technical issues that came with her being a part of his crew—such as sleeping arrangements, privacy (well, more of his than hers), his bounty hunting job (because he is _not_ giving that up, not for her), and babysitting duty. He just wanted to make sure he considered everything before he gave his answer. But even he knew he was mostly focusing on the negative aspect of Talia accompanying him and Vandar on the _Crest_.

While he continues to pace anxiously, concern for both the baby and Talia plaguing him like pinpricks, he feels that those issues were just excuses, weak and meaningless. His friend had proven herself to be a kind guardian on Cholganna and here in Iziz, so Vandar would be in caring hands. From hearing pieces of her life and from their interrupted Mandalorian Fighting Circle he knows that Talia is a skilled fighter. If he wants to, he can view this situation on Dxun as a test, to prove to him how good she is in tight spots and in surviving under strenuous and unfavorable circumstances. Maybe Fate is challenging his friend’s competence and his trust in her. So, he tells himself to stop worrying, to have faith that she and Vandar will be all right once he gets to the moon. He needs to believe that she will be a good protector, one that he can rely on when the three of them leave Onderon.

Circling the holotable in the room, he tears his mind away from his stranded companions. He glances at the relatively empty chamber. While he is wasting his time and energy here, doctors are supervising their prisoner-patient from Kira City as Captain Krayt questions him. Both the Viceroy and the Regent are currently watching the interrogation—even that annoying little R6 unit was allowed to go with them! So, naturally, the bounty hunter had wanted to be there as well since he witnessed Gia’s interview at the Manor. However, he had been forbidden from the Temple’s holding cells. According to the stuffy Mandalorian politicians, this is an internal matter only. It was offensive that they trusted a trash compactor of a droid rather than someone from their Creed.

 _“You’re here as a courtesy, Traxell,”_ Ryk’ken had said, his tone reprimanding.

What softened the verbal slap was what Tor told him: _“Be on stand-by just in case we have to act on what we find out.”_ There was some comfort in knowing that the Regent would be including him in uncovering this whole fiasco, and respect for him began to grow within the bounty hunter.

Though he was thankful for Lord Kavan’s professional attitude, he still is not quite sure what to make of the Regent. If he is being honest, he had been inclined to dislike him after finding out that he has been jealous of Talia and her close relationship with Thea. When he first laid eyes on the Regent, he saw this rigid, narrow-minded man who was a devoted Mandalorian and a hardened warrior. But Tor seemed to honor the bounty hunter as Talia’s houseguest and a fellow Mando, which is making him like the Regent a lot more than Ryk’ken.

The sound of keystrokes penetrates his thoughts and pulls him back to the present. He has almost forgotten about Lieutenant Ryk’ken who has been keeping himself busy by monitoring Dxun. A bluish-green hologram of the moon hovers above the table; the crash sites are highlighted in orange. Lance has been studying the weather almost nonstop, receiving updates every half-hour. He had mentioned that Iziz does have live-surveillance footage of the surface but that the storm and the thick clouds have been preventing them from seeing anything clearly.

As a thoughtful gesture, the Lieutenant had pulled up a map of the terrain surrounding the crash sites and the Tomb of Freedon Nadd for the bounty hunter. He was appreciative for being given the chance to commit the land to memory, but looking at the hologram just made him feel even more impatient to get to Dxun. And that is why he started pacing around the room for the past hour.

“You’ll wear yourself out if you keep on walking around like that,” he hears Lance remark when he moves past him.

“I have to _do_ something,” he snaps.

A second after his words leave his mouth, he wishes he had bitten his tongue for sounding so sharp. After all, the storm is not the kid’s fault. When he paces to the other side of the holotable, he notices that Lance has stepped away from the terminal and is now sitting on one of the benches surrounding the table.

“Before Talia . . . you know,” the eighteen-year-old begins as he gestures to the holographic moon. Clearing his throat, he diverts his brown eyes to the floor for a second before saying, “She called you ‘Ordo.’”

“So?”

“But you say you’re Danaan Traxell,” Lance reminds him, his blood-red armor gleaming in the lights. “Which name is really yours?”

At first, the bounty hunter wants to tell the kid that he must have heard wrong or that this does not concern him. But Talia’s slip of the tongue has exposed him. Instead of feeling irritated by this, he decides to clear the air and set the record straight for someone as honorable as the young Ryk’ken.

“Talia gave me the name ‘Traxell,’” he explains, still pacing, “because my real one isn’t anyone’s business except my own. I’m not really from Clan Wren. I’m . . . I’m from Tribe Ordo of Mandalore.”

Lance’s eyes widen at the revelation, but he says nothing at the moment. The seconds tick by, and the bounty hunter is starting to feel how late the hour is. As he unstraps his sniper rifle from his back, he figures it must be around nine in the evening. Normally, his body would not be feeling so tired at this time, but then, he has had a _very_ long day.

“Ordo is an honorable Clan,” he hears the Lieutenant remark as the bounty hunter sets his rifle against the wall. “There’s no shame in being associated with them. Or with Lord Kavan.”

When he turns around, he finds the kid watching him with new eyes. “But his Clan is different from my Tribe. They may share a name,” he points out, “but not the beliefs.”

“We Mandos are the same, here,” Lance replies, tapping the tips of his fingers on the center of his breast-plate.

There, embedded in his red armor is the _Beskaryc Kar’ta_ ¹, the Mandalorian Iron Heart. Although it is sometimes called the Mandalorian diamond by outsiders, its shape is more of a vertical hexagon, long and narrow, with a rectangle etched in the middle. It is an ancient symbol from his culture that reflects a Mando’s devotion to his Clan, the _Resol’nare_ ², and his culture.

 _(_ ¹ _pronounced: BES-kar-EESH Kah-ROH-ta; translation: “Iron Heart”)_

 _(_ ² _pronounced: RAY-sol NAH-ray; translation: “Six Actions”; significance: the tenets of the Mandalorian life)_

“Our way of life,” Lance continues, dropping his hand, “proves it.”

Even though a sense of patriotism surges through his blood as he thinks about the Iron Heart on his own armor, the bounty hunter knows that the Lieutenant’s words are based on naivety and from lack of exposure to other Mandos—which is why he does not mention the biggest difference between them, the one about their helmets. Since they met, Talia has tried to convince him that removing it is not dishonorable, but all his life, his Tribe has taught him otherwise. And he is not in the mood to have another discussion or debate about it, especially not with a junior lieutenant who probably does not have much experience outside of the Japrael System.

“You called Talia ‘ _ba’vodu_ *,’” he comments, taking a seat on the bench next to Lance’s. “You that close to her?”

 _(_ * _pronounced: BAH-vod-oo; translation: “aunt” or “auntie”)_

The younger man nods. “Yeah. She and my blood aunt, Zaerdra, were best friends. She’s pretty much a part of my family.”

The bounty hunter wants to know just how “much a part” his friend is, but he holds his tongue. Besides, he does not think that it is wise to ask Lance how he feels about his father’s attraction to his “aunt.” He would be poking a stick at a hornet’s nest.

His gaze sweeps over to the hologram of the Demon Moon. From what he has heard about it, from Nazim and Krayt, he does not see the appeal to the beast-infested jungle stretching from one end of the small sphere to the other.

“So, what’s the big deal with Dxun?” he asks his companion. “Sounds like it’s a hazardous place to live. Why do Mandos stay if its damp, dark, and dangerous?”

As he waits for an answer, he feels his chest expand for coming up with three _D_ words so easily.

“Because it’s home,” the Lieutenant replies with a shrug. “Dxun constantly challenges us, to live stronger and better. Only the most resilient survive.”

“What about the beasts?” He remembers reading about how perilous the moon’s fauna is. They had sounded worse than Cholganna’s Nexu population.

“Well, we don’t go on hunting sprees or do it just for fun. We kill for food and resources. But we also do it for initiations, for our recruits.”

The bounty hunter nods, his gaze surveying the thick jungle on the map featuring the crash sites. “What’s the deadliest animal there?” he wonders.

“The Maalraas*,” Lance says without hesitation. He stands up and returns to the holotable. After a few keystrokes, a colored hologram of the creature appears and hovers in front of them.

 _(_ * _pronounced: Mahl-rahs)_

For a few seconds, the bounty hunter studies the animal. He even rises from his seat and joins the kid so he can get a better look at the Maalraa.

It is a dark red, four-legged beast that reminds him of some kind of evil feline. Huge fangs protrude from its round head; they point both up and down, passing by the Maalraa’s thick lips. Extra skin drapes from its chin like facial hair, but he does not think that Maalraas have fur, just thick skin. Its claws are long and deadly-looking, and its tail is thin like a whip. The hologram of the Maalraa features it walking, its boney legs carrying a slim yet muscled body. Its long neck holds up its head as its glowing, beady eyes check its surroundings.

From what he remembers about the Maalraas, they are predatory animals that hunt in packs and are also called Nighthunters. As he surveys the claws and fanged jaw of the hologram, he can only imagine how powerful a Maalraa is, tearing its victims into shreds and mauling them alive. There is something sinister about this beast that makes him think he would prefer to face another Nexu than a Maalraa. He hopes that Talia does not run into one on Dxun.

“Looks pretty nasty,” he remarks to Lance.

“Tell me about it. What makes them even more awful,” the younger man adds, “is that they hunt in packs. As if one’s not bad enough. They’re mystical beasts with unnaturally thick skin.”

“Mystical?” the bounty hunter questions, a scoff in his tone. “How so?”

“If you don’t watch them,” Lance explains, “they can blend in so well with their surroundings that they almost look invisible.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he says, eyeing the red skin. That color will stand out like a Hutt slugging its way through a Twi’lek neighborhood.

“Some say its ability to disappear is almost supernatural. The only beast able to take a Maalraa down is a Zakkeg,” the kid shares with him. “But Maalraas have been so dangerous and such a big threat that, at one time, our Mandos had hunted them down near to extinction.”

Crossing his arms, the bounty hunter states, “When it comes to annihilating a species, always remember that you can’t get rid of all of them.”

“I know. That’s what Lord Kavan says.”

Lance types away on the terminal again, and in an instant, another Maalraa appears next to the red one. This time, its skin is grey with a brown tint coloring the top of the predator’s body.

“Here’s a white Maalraa,” the kid explains, and the beast looks just as formidable as the first one he had shown. “The surviving Maalraas fled to the Tomb of Freedon Nadd,” he hears Lance narrate, “which is another reason why people think they’re mystical. Legend says that Maalraas are attracted to the remnants of the dark sorcerer’s magic.”

“But no one goes to the Tomb,” the bounty hunter says, remembering what Lance had told him hours earlier.

“And they re-populated over the centuries. Only our Mandos know about them now. Most Onderonians would try to eliminate them if they knew.”

“If the beasts are so deadly,” he asks, “why keep it a secret?”

“Onderonians are superstitious,” the Lieutenant whispers as if he is afraid of being overheard despite the fact that they are alone in the room. “They’ll eliminate anything they fear or don’t understand. But Mandos respect the land and whatever is able to survive Dxun. Lucky for us, the Maalraas don’t really stray far from Nadd Valley.” He turns off the holograms of the beasts.

The information crashes onto the bounty hunter like a crate filled with bricks. His muscles tense up when he realizes that an entire population of Maalraas will be waiting for his companions as they seek shelter in the ancient sepulcher. His gut twists with apprehension and . . . fear.

“That means Talia has to go through their territory before she can get to the Tomb,” he tells the Lieutenant, his gravelly voice harder than normal. With a gloved hand, he points to the holographic map featuring the crash sites and the crypt. His muscles feel rigid as he says through clenched teeth, “They’re out there. Alone. With those animals. Why didn’t anyone tell me this beforehand?”

The kid’s cheeks, though dark, could not prevent a fiery red blush from appearing. He drops his eyes and scratches the back of his neck with a hand, admitting, “We’re all so used to this. It’s common knowledge to us. Sorry we didn’t keep you in the loop.”

“What’s up with this place?” the bounty hunter demands, nodding at the ancient sepulcher. “It looks more like a temple than a tomb.” Yet, considering the superstition and fears revolving around it, he does not think a different description helps its reputation very much.

“It’s kind of both. Freedon Nadd,” Lance explains, “was actually buried here in Iziz. But legend says that his spirit kept tormenting people for hundreds of years. Eventually, his body—including some of his followers—was exhumed and taken to Dxun, to be kept locked up.”

“How’d the Mandos feel about that?”

“It was before we settled there.” The Lieutenant shrugs. “And we didn’t care about ghost stories.”

The bounty hunter cranes his neck to look at his companion. In a knowing tone, he remarks, “But you do now.”

“Only because fifty years after Nadd’s spirit was extinguished,” he defends, “dark sorcerers went there and used his tomb for some kind of creepy ceremony.”

At this, the bounty hunter wants to shake his head and scoff at the talk of wizardry and rituals, but he merely listens as Lance continues.

“Our homes, what we built after years of warfare, was being threatened. So, we helped Onderon and a good sorcerer get rid of the dark sorcerers. But while we were there, it’s been said that some Mandos could hear whispers echoing throughout the halls. It was as if the place was haunted.” He pauses before quietly adding, “A few of our Mandos were . . . disturbed. Mentally. Over the centuries, someone would be stupid enough to explore the Tomb, but they’d—”

“Go insane,” the older man finishes for him. “Yeah, you mentioned that before. And that’s why Mandos live on the other side of the moon. But it sounds like a lot of nonsense to me.” He crosses his arms. “So, what about Talia? I assume she knows your history. Why do you all think that she’d risk going there if it’s supposedly haunted and surrounded by Maalraas?”

Lance’s brown eyes flicker to the Tomb, and they stay there as he reveals, “Because Freedon Nadd is one of her great ancestors.” He glances at him, admiration in his gaze. “But my aunt isn’t afraid of him. Or the legends.”

 _Or the Maalraas I’ll take it,_ the bounty hunter inwardly adds. He wonders how Talia feels about being related to a dark sorcerer that is still feared and whispered about by both of her cultures. It comes as no surprise that some people are afraid of her and give her a wide berth.

“So,” he asks instead, “Talia understands Nadd’s . . . sorcery?” He grimaces at the word, hating that he has to talk about the supernatural as if it is real.

“In more ways than she lets on,” Lance says solemnly, returning his attention back onto the holograms. “But she doesn’t like to talk about it.”

_Of course, she doesn’t._

Before the bounty hunter can think more about this—let alone say something—their conversation is interrupted when the doors to the Council Room open. Lord Kavan returns, along with Nader and Ryk’ken.

“What news, my Lords?” Lance asks, bowing to them. But the bounty hunter keeps his posture erect. The only sign of acknowledgment he gives is a curt nod at the Regent, who returns it.

“The Kiran’s name is Rehaan,” Ryk’ken informs his son. “He broke fast. He was afraid of the charges we laid on him. And of the consequences.”

From Captain Krayt’s interrogation, they learned that Rehaan is a security guard and hired muscle for House Antar of Kira City. He, along with about a dozen more men from the Antars, were involved with the attack on Talia, the bounty hunter, and Vandar.

“How does Cass fit into this?” Nader interrupts, and the bounty hunter is glad the other man asked it because the question was on the tip of his tongue.

“Apparently,” Tor replies, “Cass was framing you, Qasim, for the hunters’ presence here and for the attack. It was his plot of personal revenge against you and Talia. He felt both humiliated by his termination as your aide and betrayed that you didn’t defend him.”

“And Cass has always hated Talia,” Ryk’ken interjects through clenched teeth. “So, he wanted her dead, too.”

“But why me and my kid?” the bounty hunter queries, still not sure how he and Vandar had become involved.

“Rehaan doesn’t know,” the Viceroy answers with his usual grim expression set on his dark face. “He just had orders to kill you and help the hunters capture your kid. He said things just went wrong with their attack. They weren’t expecting you and Talia to give them so much trouble.”

“His group,” Tor supplies, “was supposed to rendezvous with the ship that also crashed on Dxun. The _Sitaare_ *. It belonged to the Antars.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: see-TAH-rey; translation: “Star”)_

“Who _are_ the Antars?” the bounty hunter demands, suspecting the attack was not just one stemming from revenge but also from politics and the ambition for more power.

“My in-laws,” Nader replies with an annoyed sigh. He runs a hand through his wavy hair, making his shoulder-length locks seem frazzled. “My second wife, Naila, was an Antar; she was their oldest daughter. I inherited her estate in Kira City: Rawda Hall.”

Remembering the names and Nader’s marriage history, the bounty hunter recalls aloud, “Talia said the Antars still blame you for the Baroness’ heart failure.”

“Which is probably why,” the Minister of Trade interrupts, “they’re trying to frame me for all this. If Cass hates me as much as Rehaan says, then it would be natural for him to seek an alliance with my rivals.”

“Even though you’re family?” Lance asks.

Nader gives the Lieutenant an amused, almost pitiful, smile. “Yes. You’ll understand how complicated a relationship with your in-laws is when you get married, young Ryk’ken.”

 _Another reason why I want to stay a bachelor,_ the bounty hunter thinks.

“According to Rehaan,” Tor shares with them, “Cass is being financed for this whole debacle by the Antars. So, we traced the credits from Qasim’s account to Black Flame, and we found out that the money had originally come from the Antars. By trying to frame Qasim for all this, I believe they wanted to see him either disgraced from Court or thrown in prison.”

The bounty hunter wants to shake his head at how petty emotions and greed have caused so much trouble. To think that this had been Talia’s world for years. No wonder his friend wants to escape it.

“But your in-laws, Nader, want Naila’s inheritance back,” the Viceroy reveals through tight lips. “Rehaan says there’ve been whispers in the Antar estate, around all of Golden _Bustan_ *, about you. They think you stole Rawda Hall from Naila. And from them.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: Boo-STAN-u; translation: “Orchard”)_

“Inheriting it isn’t theft!” the twice widower snaps at no one in particular.

The Regent raises a hand to silence him. “Be that as it may, the Antars hold you responsible for Naila’s death so much that they gave a kill-order for you. And in their defense, you and your wife didn’t exactly get along, and you married her for her wealth.”

“Your influence and power in Kira City are growing, right?” Ryk’ken questions the Minister. After he receives a curt nod, he continues, “Well, they don’t want you to become a dominant lord over there like you are here in Iziz or in Solaris. You’re a threat to them.”

“How does the Lady Talia fit into this?” Lance queries with a creased forehead, and the bounty hunter nods in agreement.

“We don’t know,” Tor admits. “Rehaan just had orders to kill or injure her and Traxell. While the Antars supply the credits and some men, Cass supplies the hunters and the means to remove the people who wronged them both.”

“Cass,” the Viceroy relays to them, “more than likely fled to Kira City, to seek refuge with his patrons. But Rehaan said that maybe he was on the _Sitaare_. We don’t know.”

“So, what’s the plan?” the bounty hunter asks, looking at the Regent. “Are you going to make these Antars pay for what they tried to do to Talia, and my kid?” He does not include himself in the charges against the Kiran family because he can take care of himself. But he cannot forgive them for the danger they have brought on his two closest companions.

“We’re not sure if the entire House is behind this,” Tor replies, his sharp jawline looking more angular. “As far as I know, it can be Lord Mahdi—he’s Naila’s father and the head of the family. I don’t want to punish everyone if it’s just one person pulling the strings. And since we’ll have to make some kind of an arrest, I will have to speak with the King about this. They’re a respected and powerful family, and he needs to know about the situation.”

“How long will that take?” the bounty hunter grumbles.

“Does the King need to know right this minute?” Nader queries, his thick Onderonian accent as smooth as silk. “I beg you, my Regent, do not trouble him this late. Why not have the Antars responsible arrested and brought before him either tomorrow or the next day? Surely, you can apprise him of the situation in the morning.”

The men in the room cast their eyes upon the Regent. Tor’s jungle-green eyes harden, and the thin vibroblade scar on his face seems to look more severe as he thinks. The bounty hunter, though impatient for a decision to be made, does not blame Lord Kavan for his careful consideration. Though he is the most powerful man in the entire Japrael System, he can still be kept in-check by his son, the King. Ridha will probably bow to his father’s advice and decisions, yet the bounty hunter has a feeling that Lord Kavan will not abuse his influence over his fifteen-year-old son. Though he may seem unapproachable and stiff with those around him, the bounty hunter had seen devotion and warmth emanate from the Regent whenever he looked at the members of his family, especially Thea.

“Lieutenant Lance,” Tor says with a clear, authoritative voice.

“I am ready.”

“Prepare a team of your best Mandos. But do not leave until you have received my permission,” the Regent warns. The knowing look he sends Lance reminds the bounty hunter of a general silently reminding his soldier of the penalty of disobeying his orders. “I shall give it to you within the next two hours. In the meantime, you are to plan a covert assault on Golden Bustan. Your mission: to arrest the entire Antar family present.”

“Um, a-all of them, my Lord?”

“Yes. I want to stop their corruption from spreading. I also want you to extract the truth from them so we can find out who is truly responsible for what happened today. And keep a look-out for Cass,” the Regent reminds the younger man. “He might be there, and we don’t want him to slip away again.”

Before Lance can say anything, Nader clears his throat. “Should not Captain Krayt be the one leading this mission? I do not mean to offend you, Lieutenant. Nor your abilities. It’s just that Krayt has been marvelous in his interrogation techniques so far. Besides,” he continues with a neutral expression, “this is a Royal Council matter because Lady Talia is an advisor to the King. And Krayt is the _Captain_ of the Royal Guard.”

“Who cares?” the bounty hunter scoffs. When he receives disapproving glances from three out of the four other men, he is too annoyed by how political this situation has become to even care that he had spoken out of turn. This tangled game of governance is really getting under his skin.

“Lord Qasim has made a good point, _ner burc’ya_ *,” the Regent says to him, a slight reprimand in his accent-free voice. “This can easily be remedied. I’ll send Captain Krayt with you,” he tells Lance. “ _He_ will conduct the interrogations, but you will be in charge of the assault.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

“I’m honored, _ner alor_ *,” the younger man replies with a bow. “But even I know that no captain will relish the idea of being subordinate to a junior officer.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair ah-LOR; translation: “my leader”)_

“And that is why I’m promoting you to captain,” Tor answers with a half-smile. While the other men are taken aback by this impromptu promotion, including the former lieutenant, he explains, “For someone so young, you’re one of the militia’s best soldiers and Mandalorian warriors. You’ve served your people well in the past. It was only a matter of time before your deeds were recognized and rewarded.”

“ _V-vor’e_ * _, ner alor_ ,” Lance manages to say with another bow. The bounty hunter sees humility and surprise waging war across his darkly tanned face, and he smirks at how awkward the young man is in trying to regain his composure.

 _(_ * _pronounced: VOHR-ay, nair ah-LOR; translation: “Thank you, my leader.”)_

Lord Kavan nods at him before turning to the bounty hunter. “I know you don’t like any of this, Traxell. But I’ll allow you to join Lance and his men, if you wish. Like most of our people, I know you’re itching for a fight.”

“I am,” he remarks. “ _Vor’e_. I really need something to do right now.”

“I’ll be honored to have you, Traxell,” he hears Lance interject.

“When can we leave?”

“ _After_ I give you all permission to go,” the Regent reminds both him and Lance. “Remember: prepare and plan for the time being. I shall return before two hours are up. Do you understand your orders, _Captain_ Ryk’ken?”

“Yes, Lord Kavan. _Tsikala par an, pel at naasad_ *.”

_(*pronounced: Zee-KAH-lah pahr ahn, pail aht NAHS-ahd; translation: “Ready for all, yielding to none.”)_

Hearing his Tribe’s former maxim spoken in the ancient Mando’a language sends chills down the bounty hunter’s spine. A sense of comradery stirs within him, and before he can stop himself, he quietly says, “ _Ibic cuyir te ara_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: ee-BIK KOO-yeer teh ah-rah; translation: “This is the way.”)_

All of the men glance in his direction, including Nader who apparently is familiar with his Creed’s dialect. While Ryk’ken stares at him, confused to the meaning behind his words, Lord Kavan merely regards him with interest.

“ _Jate_ *,” he says with a nod before leaving with Ryk’ken and Nader in tow.

 _(_ * _pronounced: JAH-tay; translation: “good”)_

“Well,” Lance breathes out once the two of them are alone. “Looks like we got a lot of work to do.”

The bounty hunter nods at the newly promoted captain. Though he has known him for just a day, even he believes the kid deserved the endorsement.

For a moment his gaze drifts over to the hologram of Dxun and the Tomb of Freedon Nadd. His bones itch to go there and find his charge and Talia; he can feel the rest of his body grow impatient for the storm to disperse. But for the time being, he is looking forward to having something to do to keep him occupied—despite the fact that it pushes him further into the distasteful, political mires. At least he will be kept busy while he waits. Besides, the idea of bringing those responsible for this whole mess their just rewards sends a hum of pleasure through his blood. His hand rests atop his holstered pistol.

“Before we start,” he says to Captain Lance, “tell me a little bit more about these Antars.”

* * *

_Beskaryc Kar’ta_ , the Mandalorian Iron Heart

(This symbol is everywhere in "Clone Wars" when they focus on the Mandalorian people.)

Red and White Maalraas:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some thoughts on Mandalorians in the new fandom (which I hardly agree with anymore, not since Disney bought Star Wars):
> 
> In "Clone Wars," I really didn't like how they depicted Mandalore (their people, politics, "new" culture), especially the new idea of peace and zero warfare. I was annoyed to no end of Duchess Satine and how much of a pacifist she was, and I loathed that she was practically forcing her pacifism on the Mandalorian way of life. As I made my way through "Clone Wars" (Seasons 1-3 so far), I couldn't stop scoffing and critiquing the people who allowed such a change to happen. I get that after the Mandalorian Wars and the age of the Old Republic that the Mandos were never the same and never recovered; but I didn't like the idea of the Mandos "forgetting" their once proud culture. Yes, warfare had a lot to do with who they were (which isn't good), but it was a glue that promoted honor, loyalty, and comradeship. No wonder Death Watch was created, a group of fanatics who allowed their repressed desire for combat and glory blind them. They should've just declared themselves separate people or moved somewhere else (because there are other Mando worlds) and join the Republic. That way, DW could have fought against the Separatists instead of being used by them. Well, the point is: the "Clone Wars" Mandos? Not a fan at all.
> 
> Soooo, in my stories I'm pretty much ignoring the "Clone Wars" version of the Mandalorians (especially Duchess Satine's beliefs). I don't know how "Rebels" handles the Mandalorians because I haven't watched that series yet, but when I finally do get around to seeing it, I might change some aspects of the Mandos in my stories (depending if I like how they're depicted).


	12. Golden Allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. I'll explain at the end note. But for now, enjoy!

Chapter XII: Golden Allies

_Location: Golden Bustan, the Antars’ Country Estate_ _(10 miles West of Kira City)_

_Time after Dxun crash: 9 ½ hours_

The night sky is filled with a blanket of stars, twinkling like glitter. None of Onderon’s four moons are in view, not even this early in the morning, which is a relief to the Mandalorian bounty hunter. He is glad that Dxun is currently out of sight and is not taunting him from its usual position in the dark atmosphere.

Though it is a few minutes after two in the wee hours of the morning, he feels neither sluggish nor tired. It seems that his “rest” during the trip here had prepared him for the task at hand.

Lying before him are orchards, vineyards, and fields stretching as far as his eyes can see. Despite the fact that nearly all of it is covered in darkness, he is aware that four miles to the West is nothing but an orchard and six miles to the East is a field. He has stationed himself several yards away from a pathway that runs between these two crops, and in between the straight lines of fruit trees and vegetable plants, about a mile away, is a two-story bunkhouse where twenty workers are—hopefully—sleeping like most sane people at this ridiculous hour. Only crickets and nocturnal rodents are awake, chirping or shuffling in the wild jungle surrounding the tamed farmland.

Granted, the bunkhouse ahead of him is a factor that must be dealt with; however, it is the wealthy country house lying beyond that interests him: the Antar mansion of the Golden Bustan estate. It is three stories tall with columns supporting it all around, and the building itself stretches almost an entire acre wide. According to the intelligence he received from both Lance and Krayt, the house has an underground garage buried beneath the southern field for the family’s speeders, farm equipment, droids, etc. During the planning stages of their covert operation, the Mandalorian studied the blueprints of the grand mansion and believes that he can maneuver himself in and out of it well, if he is required to do so.

However, the country house and all of Golden Bustan are barred from him right now because several yards in front of him is an electrical fence that acts as a perimeter for the entire estate. It is about nine feet tall and made up of five, gold lasers acting as a humming yet deadly barrier. The fence is connected by pillars, which are about fifteen feet apart, and atop each of them is a yellow light and a security camera. Any kind of movement, whether from unwelcome intruders or the planet’s beasts, will be recorded and observed by the Antars’ security chief who should be living in the bunkhouse about half a mile beyond the fence.

As the Mandalorian crouches amongst a thick group of bushes, he sweeps his gaze across the gold laser fence. He remembers Krayt mentioned that _bustan_ means “orchard.” From his previous study of the farmland, he knows there are two of them here, but he is still puzzled on how the estate had earned the descriptive word _golden_ —and he doubts it has anything to do with the security fence. He had voiced this bewilderment to Krayt, and the Captain simply said, _“You’ll see, Traxell. When dawn comes, you’ll see.”_

He settles a gloved hand on his holstered blaster; his fingers wrap around its unfamiliar grip. While he and the crew were readying themselves aboard the _Drexl_ —which is currently in space, hovering above them—Lance ordered all of their weapons to be set to stun mode. But since the bounty hunter’s pistol did not have that particular feature, he was assigned a new weapon for this op. The newly promoted Captain even requested that both his pistol and his Amban sniper rifle remain onboard the _Drexl_ —especially when he learned that the latter weapon had the ability to disintegrate its targets.

Despite the fact that the bounty hunter greatly disliked the idea of being separated from his personal weapons, he had consented, knowing that the purpose of their covert mission was to apprehend and not to annihilate. But he could not stop himself from wincing when he had shut the door of the locker that housed his pistol and rifle.

A rustling noise on his left reminds him that he is not alone as he waits for Lance’s signal. Four Mandos have been assigned to accompany him, and amongst them are Deke and Kurs. Although he had met those two briefly during Princess Talia’s birthday celebration, he was glad that he did not have to work with complete strangers.

With his night vision on, he glances to his left. He is able to make out Deke, who is less than fifteen feet away from him. The other Mando is painted in shades of lime, black, and dark green, but his cream-colored armor occasionally catches the soft glow of the fence’s lights. Thankfully, it is not enough to give away his position.

When the bounty hunter had reacquainted himself with Deke during the trip from Iziz to Kira City’s airspace, he found the other man to be outspoken and confident—which almost bordered on arrogance. Deke has almond-shaped eyes, skin the color of pale butter, and black buzz-cut hair. The bounty hunter figures him to be in his mid-thirties and around his height. Deke’s slanted accent sounded harsh compared to Krayt’s Onderonian one, but he seemed like a competent soldier.

He remembers his fellow Mando being described as envious of the bounty hunter because _he_ had been posing as Talia’s bodyguard, a job that was supposedly considered an honor. It was another member of their Creed, Kurs, who said this.

Instinctively, he cranes his neck to his right, searching for the other man. His gaze roams across the thick bushes and jungle, but he is unable to find him. He shrugs his shoulders, not surprised that Kurs is invisible at the moment. After all, his armor is forest-green, which allows him to blend in with the jungle well, especially in the dark.

Kurs was a quiet Mando around his age, but he was half a foot taller than the bounty hunter. He seemed experienced and professional and always nodded respectfully at him. Unlike most of the crew, Kurs preferred to keep his helmet on. But the bounty hunter had been able to see that, beneath the Beskar, Kurs had dark skin, hazel-green eyes, and a smoothly shaved head. Yet regardless of his height, Kurs would be hard for a person to miss because his helmet had two “horns” atop it, making his five-foot-six stature even taller. Most times, he had to lower his head whenever he walked underneath the ship’s thresholds.

A soft whirring sound behind the bounty hunter interrupts his thoughts. His jaw clenches when he remembers that R6-D12 had also accompanied his team. He almost forgot about the astromech droid, who is sitting between the other two Mandos, and he has been more than grateful for its silence.

Before he can snap at the loud trash compactor and tell it to shut up, the top left corner of his helmet’s visor spits out words in Galactic Basic: _“The storm is still brewing on Dxun.”_

“Tell me something I don’t know,” the bounty hunter hisses at the droid.

A quiet whistle followed by a sputtering noise comes from R6, and he reads: _“Onderon will share Dxun’s atmosphere in exactly twenty-two days from now.”_

Over the comms he can hear Deke snickering. None of the five Mandos are familiar with the droid’s binary language, so each of their gauntlets and helmets were programmed to not only be in contact with R6 but to also feature subtitles inside their head-gear whenever it speaks with them. No one had witnessed the scowl that appeared on the bounty hunter’s face when he was told that the orange and white tin-can would be assigned to his team.

Through clenched teeth, he quietly retorts, “I shouldn’t’ve expected a droid to understand sarcasm.”

 _“Were you being sarcastic?”_ the bucket of bolts chirps at him all high and mighty. _“I didn’t notice. I thought you wanted to know some trivia about Dxun.”_

Again, he hears Deke chortle over the comms, but he had the good sense to clear his throat as a way to excuse himself.

 _“Feisty little thing,”_ Kurs murmurs from his position.

Knowing he should not cause any kind of friction in their team of six, the bounty hunter swallows his annoyance and clarifies with the droid, “I meant I already know that Dxun’s stuck in a storm.”

The metal nuisance tweets and whistles softly, and he reads: _“I just wanted to give you an update on Dxun. And Lady Talia.”_

“We need to focus on the mission right now,” he almost snaps. He sends R6 a glare. “I don’t need updates on her to distract me, so scrap them.”

 _“You don’t want any updates? At all?”_ the astromech whirs, sounding slightly offended.

“Only if the storm miraculously disappears,” the bounty hunter mutters under his breath.

After a sad affirmative from the droid disappears into the night, the comms crackle, and Krayt’s voice rings through his ears: _“Bravo Team in position.”_

 _It’s about time,_ the bounty hunter inwardly grumbles.

 _“Alpha Team ready,”_ he hears Lance reply.

“Charlie Team ready,” the bounty hunter answers.

Immediately, his mind’s eye pictures the locations of Lance and Krayt. He conjures up a map of the entire farmland and labels where the two officers are positioned. Lance is stationed less than ten yards west from where the bounty hunter and his Charlie Team are. Meanwhile, in the North above the northern orchard, Krayt is outside the fence there, also using the jungle as a cover.

 _“Does R6 detect any activity in our vicinity, Charlie?”_ Lance whispers through the comms.

The droid beeps his response. After reading it, the bounty hunter says, “Negative, Alpha. All clear and quiet on our end.”

 _“Then execute, Charlie,”_ the young Captain orders.

Like lightening the bounty hunter yanks out his new blaster and points it at his designated fence-pillar several yards away from him. “On three, boys,” he relays to Deke and Kurs. As he counts, he aims for the security camera directly below the light. “One, two, three.”

Simultaneously, they each fire at the camera in front of them. Upon impact the devices crackle with silver electricity, and the yellow beams above them flicker like candles about to be extinguished by a whispering wind. But the bounty hunter does not wait to admire the light show; instead, he sprints out of the jungle towards his designated pillar. Behind him, he can hear R6 activate its built-in jet thrusters, and in seconds, the flying droid hovers in the air right beside him.

They reach the pillar at the same time. While he calms down his breaths, the tin-can settles onto the ground. The bounty hunter can hear his four Mandos sprinting towards him, but his gaze is focused on R6. The droid pulls its thrusters back into its legs and sticks out its manipulator arm. In the blink of an eye, R6 flips open a panel embedded in the fence-pillar, retracts its current appendage, and extends its computer interface arm as a substitute. The astromech then plugs itself into the security port hidden behind some wires.

“R6 is in,” the bounty hunter reports to Lance.

_“Copy that, Traxell.”_

“Hurry up, little guy,” Deke whispers to R6. “Those cameras won’t be distortin’ their footage of us for very long.”

His slanted accent had sounded impatient to the bounty hunter, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees both of his companions pointing their blasters at their designated pillars again, as a precaution. The other two men are facing the jungle, watching their backs.

After Deke’s remark, the bucket of bolts releases a warbled sound followed by two annoyed beeps. The bounty hunter reads: _“Hold onto your circuits! I’m working on it.”_ Five seconds pass until R6 declares with loud whistles and whirrs: _“I’m in! Footage is on a loop for the next three minutes. No one can see us.”_

“Good job, Orangey!” Deke says with a sigh.

“Don’t celebrate too soon,” Kurs murmurs to his friend.

“Alpha, Bravo,” the bounty hunter relays into the comms, “the droid’s going to shut down the fence at your locations soon. Better get into position.”

His ears are filled with confirmations. Once the barrier is temporarily disabled, the plan is for his group, Charlie Team, to storm the southern bunkhouse, stun its occupants, and have R6 plug itself into the security console there. After R6 is in the system, two men are to stay with the droid while the bounty hunter, along with Kurs and Deke, join Lance and Alpha Team, who are instructed to hide away in the southern orchard and wait for them. Together, they are to close in on the Antar mansion.

In the meantime, Bravo Team is instructed to enter the northern orchard and subdue the occupants of the bunkhouse there. After they, too, have stunned the workers, a small handful of Onderonian guards are to watch them while the rest of Bravo, led by Krayt, is to slowly make their way towards the country house as well.

Next to him, R6 releases a high-pitched whistle then three beeps. The bounty hunter reads: _“Sections of the fence will be disabled for forty-five seconds. One here and the other in the North.”_

“Copy that,” he replies before informing both Alpha and Bravo Teams, who then alert him that they are on stand-by. “They’re in position, droid,” the bounty hunter relays. “Do it.”

The golden bars of the fence flicker off, and both Mando teams do not waste any time reacting. In an orderly but quick fashion, they enter the farmland in rows of three and melt into the shadows of the orchard. Their numbers total to thirteen, plus R6 who brings up the rear with Kurs and Deke as backup, their blasters still pointing at the dark jungle.

 _“Bravo Team inside,”_ he hears Krayt inform them. The Onderonian Captain is one of eight men. _“Heading for secondary target now.”_

 _“Inform me once your bunkhouse is pacified,”_ Lance says over the comms. _“And good luck, Bravo.”_

The bounty hunter meanders underneath the fruit trees and finds the eighteen-year-old Captain. His blood-red armor looks green in his night vision, but he is able to pinpoint him since Lance is the only Mando ordering the men around.

“You good here?” he asks, his gravelly voice low.

“Yes,” the younger man replies. “Just sent a few men to scout ahead for any activity. You’re all clear to take your bunkhouse, Traxell.”

The bounty hunter nods and waves his men over to him. “Let’s go, Charlie Team.” When he hears the astrodroid chirp amongst the cicadas, he does not need to read a translation for the mechanical words, so he replies, “Yeah. You, too, R6.”

With soft steps, he and his group head north. Though the southern bunkhouse is less than a mile away from them, they quicken their pace. Behind him, he can hear R6’s wheels roll over pebbles and grass. The bounty hunter is not sure how his fellow Mandos are feeling, but his blood is rushing through him with anticipation and energy. A part of him is hoping the workers in the bunkhouse will put up a fight—he can use an outlet right now.

After several minutes, lights from the bunkhouse emerge in the darkness. The Mando ahead of them signals for them to slow down, and instinctively, the rest of them begin to crouch their bodies as they continue to advance on the building. A thrill runs up the bounty hunter’s spine while he clings to the shadows with the other four men. He glances around him, and something in his chest expands as he takes in the Beskar armor, round helmets, and pointed blasters. He has not fought alongside people from his Creed since Nevarro, almost three months ago. And before that, it had been years.

Charlie Team reaches the end of the orchard. He is about to switch his night vision to a thermal imaging feature when R6 whirs. He reads: _“My scanners detect at least ten men inside.”_

“That’s it?” the bounty hunter asks, for he knows there should be double that amount.

“He’s right, _alor_ *,” he hears Deke beside him.

 _(_ * _translation: “boss”)_

Although he knows that neither Deke nor the tin-can would lie to him, the bounty hunter has the urge to see this for himself. He switches on his own thermal imaging, and in less than a second, his eyes confirm what his ears have registered. On the second floor, he counts three bodies lying on their bunkbeds. He then finds it odd that, of the eight people on the ground level, two of them are standing and wandering around while the others seem to be sleeping—on the floor.

“Something’s up,” he hears Kurs murmur behind him.

“Agreed.”

“Should we tell the Captain?”

The bounty hunter studies the two people in the bunkhouse, his gut churning at the unexpected development. One of them has a thin strip of something pointing from the side of their head, like a kind of antenna. As his brain scrambles for the reason behind this strange feature, the only thing that makes sense to him is a Mando helmet's targeting rangefinder. He does not know if the Antars hired Mandos as security guards for their estate, but when he thinks about it, the idea is not too outlandish.

“No,” he finally answers, switching back on his night vision. Looking at his team, he instructs, “We’ll go in as planned. But don’t stun them. Leave that to me. R6, stay outside until we give you the all-clear.”

They nod their heads at him while the droid gives a confirmation whistle. He stalks out from the orchard, making sure his footsteps are quiet. With every step he can feel gravel underneath his boots; he keeps his blaster pointed in front of him just in case. When he reaches the front door of the bunkhouse, he turns off his night vision. The light above the threshold is a soft orange, and he blinks a few times so his eyes can adjust. His team knows that, while he is leading two men through the front door, Kurs and Deke are supposed to come in from the back entrance.

Taking in a deep breath, the bounty hunter rams the butt end of his blaster into the door’s panel. Metal bends against metal, and white sparks chase away his weapon as he brings it back in front of him. The door slides open with a quiet whoosh.

Quickly, he marches inside the semi-dark building with two men following him. His nose picks up the fragrance of bread, grass trimmings, sweet fruit, and dirt. He stalks down what he believes is a hallway. Two doorless rooms immediately appear on each side of him. He points for the man behind him to go to room on their left while he explores the one on their right.

With his gun set in front of him, he peeks inside and finds an empty kitchen. He notes dirty dishes on the countertops, all stacked neatly; cooking appliances peppered with hardened stains; a basket of various kinds of fruit; and other things one can find in a kitchen.

 _“Laundry room: clear,”_ he hears Kurs announce through the comms.

“Kitchen: clear,” the bounty hunter reports.

 _“Dining room: clear,”_ one of his Mandos chimes in.

He retreats from the kitchen and guides his men down the rest of the short hallway. They soon encounter a closed door at the end.

After signaling for his team to pause, he turns on his thermal imaging for a few seconds so he can see where their potential hostiles are. He discovers that the two figures have congregated off to his right. Since their blood-red and orange silhouettes are melting with another heat signature, one that reminds the bounty hunter of a computer terminal, he assumes that the potential hostiles are messing with the same security console he and his team hope to plug R6 into.

 _“We’ve found the stairs,”_ he hears Kurs report.

“Take them,” he replies. “Clear the second floor.”

_“Copy that.”_

At this, the bounty hunter opens the hall’s door by pushing a button on a side panel. Thankfully, it does not creak or jumble when it slides, granting him entrance. The room’s lights are on, but his gaze adjusts to them. As he walks forward, he lowers his blaster a few inches when he takes in the scene before him.

Four men and one woman, dressed in sleeping tunics, are lying on the floor. From the state of their bunkbeds and their twisted blankets, he figures that these Antar employees must have heard something alarming in order for them scramble off of their thick mattresses. He feels his grip on his blaster tighten; this must be the work of the people in the next room.

Moving further into the sleeping quarters, he notices that some of the workers’ chests are rising. He wonders what knocked them out. Since there is no hint of gas in the air, he assumes they must have been given a stun treatment, which is what he and his team had planned on delivering to them.

“Looks like someone got here before us,” he hears one of his Mandos mutter under his breath. The bounty hunter holds up a gloved fist, silently ordering his colleague to stop talking.

A closed door is stationed on his right, and he assumes that behind it is where the mysterious intruders and the security console are. But before he can order his men to clear the rest of the room, that very same door suddenly swooshes open. Like lightning, the men direct their attention and their blasters at the door, waiting for someone to emerge.

“Don’t shoot!” an Onderonian accent calls to them.

“Come out with your hands up!” the bounty hunter barks, his muscle tense with apprehension. He half expects a grenade to come rolling out of the room.

 _“Traxell?”_ he hears Kurs over the comms. _“What’s going on?”_

He ignores his colleague as a tall Mando slowly steps into the large sleeping quarters, his gloved hands raised above his head. The Mando is wearing brown, dented armor over a cream-colored tunic with matching trousers. His brown leather boots and belt look worn; while the former has layers of mud caked on them, the latter is decorated with ammunition, a vibro-knife, and a pistol. The man has a faded green cloak wrapped around his neck and hanging over his right shoulder, but the cloak itself stops about a foot below his waist. Strapped to his back is an impressive blaster rifle, and sitting atop his head is cream and gray helmet streaked with scratches and adorned with an antenna standing straight up in the air. This Mando, the bounty hunter concludes, is a seasoned warrior who must have been born an Onderonian but swore his life to the Creed.

“ _Ni cuy’ gar vod_ ¹,” the man says calmly, his Mando’a accent perfect like a native. “ _Vi bintar cuy’_ ².”

 _(_ ¹ _pronounced: NEE coo gahr vhod; translation: “I am your brother.”)_

 _(_ ² _pronounced: vee BEEN-tar coo; translation: “We both are.”)_

“ _Vi_ *?” one of the bounty hunter’s men asks.

 _(_ * _pronounced: vee; translation: “We”)_

At this, the brown-armored Mando jerks his head, beckoning someone from the other room to join him. Soft footsteps shuffle across the floor, and the sound prompts the bounty hunter’s index finger to ghost over his blaster’s trigger. His companions flank him on both sides, their postures tense as another Mando hesitantly steps into the sleeping quarters with his gloved hands over his head.

The newcomer is dressed like night itself, for he is all covered in black from his armor to his clothes and down to his boots. He is shorter than his companion and is considerably slimmer. His black armor is not glossy but dull, yet the bounty hunter does not see any dents or scratches on it, which makes him assume that this Mando must be young, either in age or in their culture. A vibrosword is strapped to his back; its blade is thin with a slightly curved design. The bounty hunter notes that the weapon’s hilt is very plain, not at all embellished like Talia’s rapier. Two pistols, small and the color of pewter, hang from the Mando’s belt while handles of vibrodaggers peek out from the newcomer’s right gauntlet and left boot. From the Mando’s rather discreet—and even humble—appearance and damage-free armor, the bounty hunter surmises that this must be a young man who has recently joined their culture, making him wonder if he also speaks with an Onderonian accent.

“Who are you?” the bounty hunter demands.

“Can you lower your weapons?” the brown-armored Mando requests. “We’re here to help.”

“Traxell,” he hears Kurs behind him. “What’s going on?”

The bounty hunter spares Kurs a quick glance and finds him, along with Deke, entering the room—their blasters also pointed at the newcomers. Returning his attention back onto the two Mandos, he replies, “We stumbled across these guys. They were in the next room.”

“My name,” the brown-armored Mando offers, “is Yasin Antar.”

The revelation nearly makes the bounty hunter flinch as he gapes at the man in brown armor. He had heard about Yasin, the youngest member of the Antars household. From Lance’s quick summary of the Kiran family, Yasin had sworn himself to the Mandalorian Creed at the age of fifteen. His decision did not sit well with his family, and there has been a tenseness in his relationship with them since. Yasin, now thirty years old, serves as a common warrior under Clan Ordo and moves back and forth between Dxun and Kira City.

Inwardly shaking himself out of this surprise, the bounty hunter uses his raised blaster to point at Yasin’s companion. “And who’s this?” he questions, his gravelly voice tight.

“This is my nephew,” Yasin replies, gesturing to the Mando in black armor. His slow movement allows him to place a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

“I’m Rami Nader,” the younger man supplies, also lowering his raised arms. His voice is surprisingly free of any accent.

At this, the other Mandos stare at each other, obviously confused. As they mutter to themselves, the bounty hunter forces himself not to shake his head in disbelief. Not only has he encountered the black sheep of the Antar family, but he has also stumbled across Qasim Nader’s estranged eighteen-year-old son. What are the odds? He remembers reading in the Minister’s file that Rami had begun his Mandalorian training with Clan Kex at twelve while his mother was alive, but he did not expect to ever meet him. The bounty hunter’s eyes stray to Yasin. Perhaps his oath to the Creed had inspired Rami to do the same; after all, Rami’s mother was Yasin’s oldest sister.

“We’re here to help,” Yasin states, dropping his gloved hand from Rami’s shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Excuse me for finding this hard to believe,” the bounty hunter scoffs. Much to his annoyance, this situation is getting more complicated the further he wades through Onderonian politics. “Why would an Antar and a Nader want to help us?” he asks suspiciously. “We’re trespassing on Antar land and armed to the tee.”

“Lower your weapons, and we’ll explain,” Yasin reasons.

“We need to call this in,” Kurs interrupts. “The Captain should know.”

Although his blood is itching for an immediate explanation, the bounty hunter nods. He cannot keep Lance, the person in charge of this operation, in the dark. Their mission, though not compromised yet, has just developed new variables that must be taken into thorough account. So, he lowers his weapon and reaches out to R6.

“Droid, get in here. We need you for a holo-transmission to Captain Lance.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Thirty minutes later . . ._

The bounty hunter is beginning to believe, even more, of the possibility that Fate—or Destiny—truly exists. Talia had talked to him about it the first week he arrived on Onderon. He learned that, according to her, Fate has woven itself into the galaxy, touching and connecting people’s lives for the greater good. She had lit up as she explained it, and he had not seen her look so animated on a topic before. While he shared with her a summary of how he first came across Vandar and the events that led them to her homeworld, she pointed out the instances where Fate seemed to have interfered and directed both him and the child down a path the bounty hunter would not normally have taken.

And now, Fate just may be determined to keep on throwing obstacles in his way so his reunion with Vandar and Talia can be postponed.

The most recent obstacle—or detour—has been the political drama caused by Bezden Cass and the Antar family. He would not have considered delving into the latest government scandal if he was not so anxious to do something. Storming the Antar estate was simply a distraction, a way to keep him busy from worrying about his companions stranded on Dxun. A covert operation carried out by some of Iziz’s finest Mandalorians should have been fairly straightforward, but he was a fool to think so. Yasin Antar and Rami Nader’s presence in the southern bunkhouse of the Golden Bustan had made things both sticky and easy.

During a brief hiatus of the operation, the two Mandos explained to the bounty hunter and the holographic images of Captains Lance and Krayt why they had been waiting for the small army of Mandos at fifteen minutes after two in the morning. Apparently, Yasin felt that something was wrong with his family these past couple of weeks but could not figure it out. Though his relationship with them has been civil and tense for the last fifteen years, he managed to build a bridge between himself and his older brother, Sharif. And it was through this bond that allowed Yasin to get updates on his family without seeing them.

The youngest Antar learned that his father, Mahdi, hired more men to work as security guards for their estate. He said that Sharif mentioned how odd it was considering it was unnecessary. At first, Yasin dismissed the news, but when he visited the Golden Bustan and saw the new hires for himself, he noticed how questionable they looked. He casually asked for the reason behind more guards and was shot down by his older sister, _Lupe_ *—she was the twin sister of Naila, Rami’s mother.

 _(_ * _pronounced: LOO-pay)_

During his visit, Yasin heard whispers amongst the servants and workers about possibly moving with Lupe to Rawda Hall, Qasim Nader’s estate located northeast of the Antar homestead. Of course, he did not understand how that was possible since he knew Rawda Hall was no longer his family’s land to control. He admitted the Antars had been bitter towards the Minister of Trade and blamed him for Naila’s death, but Yasin did not think his family would do anything drastic.

He explained that, as time went by, there were little things that not only piqued his interest but also roused his suspicions. At this point, Rami had come for a visit from Dxun due to the rainy season, but the Antars refused to see their grandson and nephew. Yasin said they kept referring to Rami as “Nader’s son” with unusual coldness and resentment. In the end, both Mandos were exiled from the Golden Bustan.

Perplexed and even more wary, Yasin and Rami did some digging on their family’s most recent activities, both business and personal. Rami, who had a talent for slicing computers, hacked into the Antars’ files by using the terminal in their townhouse in Kira City, which was occupied by Sharif and his family. The Mandos made it clear that Sharif had zero knowledge of what they or the rest of the Antars had been up to.

Together, uncle and nephew learned that Mahdi Antar had transferred a substantial amount of credits into Nader’s bank account, and that very same sum was used to pay bounty hunters from the Nevarro Guild. Rami revealed that these financial actions would have been difficult to trace back to the Antars had he not left a trail that would incriminate them. If it were not for him, his own father would have been framed for the attack on Lady Talia and her companions, and the Antars would never have been suspected.

 _“How’d you know about the attack?”_ Captain Lance had asked them. _“We’ve been trying to keep this quiet.”_

 _“I have an old friend working in the militia in Iziz,”_ Yasin explained. _“They mentioned it to me when I asked if anything bizarre happed lately.”_

He and Rami had put the pieces together and acted quickly, uncovering the bank records for the authorities to find. Rami even hacked into the Unifar Temple’s communications—for which he apologized for—and was able to see and hear of the covert operation led by Lance. Since then, they had been monitoring the Izizian Mandos and their trip from the capital to the _Drexl_ ’s orbit above Kira City and to their position just outside of the Golden Bustan.

 _“So, you knocked out your own family’s employees?”_ the bounty hunter had questioned as he nodded at the unconscious occupants of the bunkhouse.

 _“We just thought we’d save you some time,”_ Yasin replied, shrugging his shoulders.

The two of them had smuggled themselves onto the estate and positioned themselves according to Lance’s plan. When they heard the southern bunkhouse was one of the targets for the Mandos, Yasin and Rami decided to stun the workers as a sign of good faith.

 _“Good faith?”_ Krayt had repeated, his holographic form shimmering. _“I’m surprised you’re wanting to help us. We’re going after your family.”_

 _“And they,”_ Yasin said with a shake of his head, _“have disgraced themselves. Their anger and grief and bitterness have blinded them beyond reason. I think my father and sister are the true culprits in this; they took Naila’s death the hardest. So, Rami and I want to stop them before they make things worse.”_

 _“This is a family matter,”_ his nephew interrupted. _“And we want to see this handled ourselves.”_

Hearing their intentions had made the bounty hunter want to scoff and say, ‘I don’t give a Hutt’s backside for your family,’ but good sense stopped either of those things from escaping his lips. Instead, he turned to Lance’s blue image projected from R6, waiting for his decision. A prick of disappointment jabbed at him when the young Captain agreed for Yasin and Rami to join them. The bounty hunter did not miss the slight jerk of Krayt’s head at the declaration, yet the Onderonian Captain did not question Lance.

Although he personally does not trust the newcomers too much, the bounty hunter has a sneaky suspicion that their involvement may make this operation messier than it should be. By helping their family be made responsible for their actions, Yasin and Rami just could be severing their ties to them permanently—an option that may cast doubt during the mission. On the other hand, their contribution of uncovering facts allowed things to run smoothly for the Izizian Mandos.

But still, the bounty hunter is glad that the two additions to their op have been assigned to his team because he will not hesitate to put either of them down if they have any second thoughts. He would be a fool not to be wary of their new allies hailing from the golden family of Kira City.

 _We should’ve just stormed this place, blasters blazing,_ he grumbles to himself as he trudges through the dark southern orchard with Mandos flanking him.

They left two of his men in the bunkhouse with R6, to guard the little metal nuisance—only because the bounty hunter could not let anything happen to it while Talia is away. The astrodroid connected itself to the computer terminal in the staff’s quarters, and within minutes, R6 turned off the extra security surrounding the Antar mansion. Its main job is to alert the men of any kind of activity nearby and to find as much incriminating evidence against the Antars as possible.

Yasin and Rami have replaced the two Mandos from Charlie Team, and the bounty hunter has allowed them to lead them north through the southern orchard. After all, they are intimately acquainted with the farmland.

Before their brief interruption of their mission, Bravo Team had successfully removed the northern bunkhouse and its occupants from being potential threats. The Antar workers had been stunned and are currently being supervised by two men. And when their operation resumed, Bravo headed south towards the estate’s mansion. Meanwhile, both Alpha and Charlie Teams have also proceeded to the house, with the former trailing behind the latter, watching the men’s backs.

Leaves rustle in the wind, and the fruit trees’ branches sway in the night. In the distance, a beast roars, scaring a flock of birds from their sleep. Beside the bounty hunter, Deke trips over something, probably a root, and is steadied by Rami.

Over the comms, he can hear R6 chirp and whistle. He reads: _“The Antars must suspect something. They have fifteen men patrolling around the house.”_

“Just the house?” he asks, making sure his voice is extra quiet.

 _“Affirmative,”_ R6 whistles.

The bounty hunter’s blood surges with excitement before it disperses in a second. Fifteen men will be a welcomed challenge for him to take out alone, but with Teams Alpha through Charlie consisting of twenty-one well-trained Mandos and Royal Guards, he will be lucky if he can eliminate a lone henchman in a one-on-one fight. Half of him is disappointed that Lance had not arranged for fewer men.

“We’re here,” Yasin announces, his Onderonian accent as soft as the wind.

Clinging to the shadows of the orchard, the men huddle and crouch together behind the final row of trees. The bounty hunter sandwiches himself between Yasin and Kurs, surveying their target. His night vision paints everything in shades of green and black, yet he is able to pinpoint four guards wandering around the mansion. The Antar abode is bigger than he expected with its tall pillars, three floors, and numerous balconies; it makes Dewan Manor look like a dollhouse—and he promises himself never to say that in front of Talia.

He notices that a handful of windows on the south side are glowing bright with lights, which is odd considering how late, or early, it is. While he wonders if the Antars really are anticipating some kind of attack like R6 said, he feels another body squeeze its way right in between himself and Kurs. When he looks at the other man, he discovers that it is Lance.

“What’s the plan?” he asks the Captain.

“Send me and my nephew in,” Yasin requests. “We’ll take out the guards.”

 _“Bravo’s ready to clear the north and west sides of the house,”_ they all hear Krayt volunteer.

Lance’s helmet prevents anyone from reading his face, but from how tense his body is, the bounty hunter bets that his Mandalorian brother is racking his brain, trying to figure out the best way for them to proceed. Though a Captain, Lance is still young and has much to learn.

“Yasin,” the bounty hunter asks, “is there a way to get into the house through the underground garage?” After the brown-armored Mando nods in confirmation, he continues, “Lance, why don’t you go with him, take some men, and breech security through the garage? I’ll take Rami with me and Charlie Team, and we’ll cover you. Then we’ll secure the south and east sides of the house, leave a few men stationed outside, and go through the front door.”

 _“And we’ll take the other sides?”_ Krayt chimes in through the comms.

“Yeah. And find a back door to help us clear the house.”

A few seconds pass. Lance turns to look at the mansion before he glances at the bounty hunter. He nods, his shiny armor catching the lights of the house. “Sounds like a plan,” he agrees. “I’ll take four of my men with me and Yasin. Traxell, you take the rest. And you’ll be the first wave. Krayt, when you see him taking out the guards on the south side, move in.”

_“Copy that.”_

The bounty hunter stands up from crouching. Nodding at Lance, he whispers, “ _Hukaat’kama_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: hu-KAHT-ka-MAH; translation: “Watch my six.”)_

“ _Gar ganar ner miit_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: Gahr GAN-ar nair meet; translation: “You have my word.”)_

At this, the bounty hunter motions for seven men to follow him. Then, he soundlessly trots out from the orchard like lightning. His sights are set on four henchmen who have congregated near a hedge of shrubs groomed to look like small trees. He can feel his cloak flutter behind him, and his grip on his blaster tightens as he points it at the man closest to him. Squeezing the trigger, he fires, stunning his target into oblivion for the next couple of hours.

Seeing one of their companions suddenly drop to the ground, the other henchmen spring into action. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, the bounty hunter stuns a man farthest from him and uses the butt-end of his blaster to knock out an opponent on his right. Before the body hits the dirt, he spins himself around so he can face his last adversary. The lone man is still in the process of yanking out his weapon, but the bounty hunter is too fast for him. With the flick of his finger, he stuns the last man.

Not sparing a second to glance at the Mandos following him, he steps over the unconscious bodies and jogs towards his next target: a man walking the perimeter of the mansion. His back is to the bounty hunter, but he unexpectantly turns around—probably because he heard approaching footsteps.

Instead of stunning the man, the bounty hunter holsters his weapon, wanting to enter a fight as a way to unleash his pent-up energy and restlessness. He throws a punch at the guard’s jaw. As anticipated, the man grunts while his body jerks backwards. The bounty hunter then delivers a solid punch to his opponent’s stomach. When the other man crumbles forward, the bounty hunter seizes the guard’s head, raises a leg as if he is taking a giant step, and collides the man’s agonized face with his knee. He can feel the henchman’s cheekbone crack against the edge of his thigh-guard; the silver Beskar vibrates upon impact.

As his target’s body tumbles to the ground, the bounty hunter releases his hold on him. A soft thud reaches his ears when the unconscious man lands in the dirt face-first, but the bounty hunter marches forward. He continues to jog parallel to the mansion, his gloved hand sliding over his blaster. Behind him, he can hear his men tailing him. He smirks, thinking they cannot seem to catch up with him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a handful of Mandos descending into the nearby field, no doubt entering a secretive trap-door that will lead them into the underground garage.

 _“West side’s secure,”_ he hears Krayt report through the comms.

 _“Yasin got us inside the garage,”_ Lance informs them.

Before the bounty hunter can say anything, a dark figure turns the corner of the mansion. He quickly retrieves his blaster from his holster. Just as the figure stills, probably registering that the estate is under attack, the bounty hunter points his weapon at the henchman and squeezes the trigger. In the blink of an eye, the figure collapses onto the ground; however, when he does, the bounty hunter hears someone shout, as if they are calling out to the unconscious man.

 _“South side: secure,”_ Rami says over the comms.

The bounty hunter nears the southeast corner of the mansion, his blaster still aimed at the stunned henchman. His boots carry him closer when suddenly another figure appears, bending down to inspect the fallen guard.

“Gotcha,” he mutters under his breath. He fires at the newcomer, who then joins his friend into dream land.

By this time, he has arrived at the corner. After he glances at the men on the ground—just to make sure they are indeed temporarily comatose—he peeks around the corner to the east side of the house. Shuffling footsteps draw closer behind him. He scans the property ahead of him and sees nothing out of the ordinary, so he retreats. The mansion’s brick wall digs into his back, but he ignores the feeling.

“You’re non-stop, Mr. One-man Army,” he hears Rami comment beside him. He detects a hint of admiration and amusement in his voice. “Why didn’t you just come alone? Seems like you got this handled.”

 _“North side’s secure,”_ Krayt’s voice crackles through the comms.

“Do you work for the Viceroy or the Izizian Militia?” Rami asks.

“Neither,” the bounty hunter replies before he turns the corner. “East side’s secure,” he reports. “Lance: status?”

As he leads his Mandos towards the front door of the mansion, he hears the Captain reply, _“We’re in the house. Yasin says that his family is on the second floor, south wing.”_

Before he can answer Lance, he hears R6 whir then chirp. He reads: _“Opening front door for you, Master Traxell.”_

 _Here goes nothing,_ the bounty hunter thinks, bracing himself for what he may come across in the acre-wide mansion. _These Antars better be easy to crack, or so help me . . . !_

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Over the next two hours . . ._

_“So, Lady Lupe was behind this from the beginning,”_ Kavan Tor remarks, his holographic form shining blue. His jawline is as sharp as ever, but the scar on his face does not look so prominent.

After the Antar mansion was theirs, Captain Krayt set to work interrogating Baron Mahdi, Baroness Aisha, and Lady Lupe. The bounty hunter is glad that he was allowed to witness the grilling interview this time. He was a silent observer along with Lance, and once Krayt was satisfied with what he learned, the three of them contacted the Unifar Temple. In record time, holograms of the Regent and Dacob Ryk’ken appeared before them.

“Including Baron Mahdi,” Krayt respectfully adds. “But it was Cass who really started it. He approached Lady Lupe first about getting back at the Minister and Lady Talia. As Naila’s twin, she took her sister’s death very hard.”

 _That’s an understatement,_ the bounty hunter inwardly huffs. The unmarried woman in question was still wearing mourning clothes even after four years, and grief had radiated from her like a hurricane.

“She blames the Minister. You should’ve seen her, my Lord,” the Onderonian Captain mentions, shifting his feet with embarrassment. “She was practically gnashing her teeth at the mere mention of the Minister.”

Lupe reminded the bounty hunter of an onyx Nexu when she admitted her involvement in the scheme to ruin Nader. A wide smile, which could be seen as a sneer, spread across her ruby lips, and her brown eyes narrowed into feline slits. While sitting during Krayt’s questioning, her long white nails scraped across her black dress as if she was ready to tear her brother-in-law into shreds if he magically stood before her.

 _“How are Traxell and his child tied into this?”_ the Regent asks.

“They were a means to hurt Lady Talia,” Krayt reports. “If Cass couldn’t get her killed, then he wanted her to see them ripped away from her. Just like his life in Iziz was apparently ripped from him.”

 _Laandur hut’uun_ * _,_ the bounty hunter grumbles. He cannot stop his gloved hands from forming fists, so he hides them by crossing his arms.

 _(_ * _pronounced: LAHN-doo-er hoo-TOON; translation: “Pathetic coward”)_

“But Cass’ and the Antars’ main focus was Minister Nader,” Lance informs his father and the Regent. “They wanted him to be ruined at Court or imprisoned. And they weren’t picky. Once that happened, they would’ve found a way to take over his estate in Kira City and disinherit the Minister’s family.”

 _“But why Talia?”_ Ryk’ken wonders aloud, speaking for the first time. _“Did the Antars know Cass wanted to hurt her, too? Was that part of their deal?”_

It does not surprise the bounty hunter that the Viceroy is still focused on his best friend. Yet he knows he should not be too hard on him. He, too, was perplexed as to why the Antars had chosen to risk dragging Talia into Cass’ complicated plan for revenge.

“From what we know,” Krayt answers, “Baron Mahdi isn’t a fan of Lady Talia. And Lady Lupe didn’t care. The Baron hated that Lady Talia sent people—like Mandos—from Iziz to Kira City to be officials or join the Kiran Guard. The Antars, and some other aristos, weren’t appreciative that Lady Talia trained these people to be more loyal to the Crown rather than to the Kiran government.”

“Or more particularly,” Lance interrupts, “the Antars themselves since they practically rule this side of Onderon.”

“Her legacy,” the bounty hunter says, breaking his silence. The men turn their attention to him, and he can see Kavan tilt his head at him, quietly asking him to continue. “Talia’s legacy,” he repeats, his throat tight. “That’s what they hated. And they were willing to kill her because of it.”

 _“Ambitious,”_ the Regent comments, his face as grim as Ryk’ken’s. _“They tried to get rid of two birds with one stone. Cass, too.”_

The Viceroy crosses his arms. A scowl stretches across his dark skin as he realizes, _“So, letting Cass go after Talia was simply a bonus for the Antars.”_ After Krayt nods in confirmation, he questions, _“And where_ is _Cass? Were you able to find him there?”_

“No, my Lord. He isn’t here. We found out he was on the _Sitaare_ when it crashed on Dxun.”

 _And he’s a dead man if he survived,_ the bounty hunter vows to himself. He hopes that weasel does not get killed by a Maalraa because he wants the pleasure of ending Cass’ miserable life, personally. If not for him, Vandar would not have been placed in danger, and Talia would not be dealing with bounty hunters in the middle of a storm.

Making sure his voice is devoid of emotion, the bounty hunter demands more than asks, “What are you going to do to the Antars?”

While Ryk’ken sends him a glare of disapproval, the Regent simply looks amused by the outburst. _“That’s for the King to decide, and he’s been apprised of the situation from the start,”_ Kavan informs them. _“I believe he and I can think of a few things for the Antars. But for now . . .”_ He turns to his two captains. _“Arrest Baron Mahdi and Lady Lupe and bring them back to Iziz. Is Baroness Aisha involved? Or even Lord Sharif?”_

“The Baroness had no knowledge of it,” Krayt replies. “And we believe her.”

The look of horror and disappointment on her face was what proved her innocence, and the bounty hunter pitied the older woman when she put the pieces together of her family’s strange activities. Two Mandos had to escort her out of the room because she was wailing and hiccupping so loud.

“And we have it from Yasin,” Lance adds, “that Lord Sharif is also ignorant of his family’s schemes.”

Kavan nods at them before saying, _“Send in Yasin and Rami. I want to speak with them.”_

The young Captain bows at the Regent and heads for the door, and the bounty hunter takes this moment to make his exit as well. Thinking that he does not need to be a part of the conference anymore, he follows Lance out of the room. The report on what they accomplished here is done, and he is starting to feel like an outsider even though members of this op have treated him like one of their own.

He is glad Lance does not notice him trailing behind him. The bounty hunter takes the first hallway passage that he comes to and parts from the Captain. After a few strides, he walks by the room where the guilty Antars are being held. Two Mandos are standing guard by the door, and he knows there are at least four more inside, keeping vigorous watch over Mahdi and Lupe. The men outside nod at him as he passes them, and he returns it.

At some point, he makes his way to the mansion’s rooftop, needing some fresh air. He knows that one of the transport ships from the _Drexl_ will be landing there soon, and he wants to be on it. He is sick of this political conspiracy and would rather wade through Dxun’s marshy jungle than continue to walk through the eerily quiet hallways of the Golden Bustan’s mansion.

When he glances down, he notices that a few members of his Creed are still walking the perimeter of the house. He crosses the roof to the east side, waiting for dawn to officially approach. The sky is painted purple, and a sliver of the sun is almost visible from the horizon. So, he decides to stand a few feet from the roof’s edge and wait for the blazing sphere to rise. As the early birds begin to chirp, the minutes tick by, and he uses this moment to relish being by himself.

While the sun frees itself from the horizon, the bounty hunter glances around the estate and is soon mesmerized by the sight in the West. He realizes that the trees in the northern orchard do not have green leaves like most trees; instead, they are yellow. What makes them more interesting is that they catch the sun’s rays just perfectly and shimmer like gold. As the sun climbs higher into the pinkish sky, gold seems to spread across the rest of the orchard’s crown as if it has been set ablaze with yellow fire. The wind blows, lifting up his cloak and whispering through the fruit trees. Even from this distance he can hear the leaves flap in the air, their soft fingers almost sparkling like plated honey.

 _So, that’s why this place is called “Golden Orchard,”_ he muses to himself. It truly is a breath-taking sight— _that_ , he will admit. The splendid view almost makes his detour to Kira City worth it.

_Almost._

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Location: Onderonian Space_

_Time after Dxun crash: 11 ½ hours_

It is about a quarter after six in the morning aboard the _Drexl_. Most of the bounty hunter’s fellow Mandos are resting during their return trip to Iziz, but he cannot get himself to sit still, much less lie down and try to sleep. Instead, he has been wandering the ship like a restless soul trapped in purgatory. This was the same vessel that had travelled the galaxy all the way to Cholganna, looking for Talia nearly three months ago.

 _It’s only been that long?_ he asks himself, shaking his head. He can almost swear he has known her double that amount of time.

About ten minutes after the _Drexl_ left the Kiran airspace, he had found himself on the port side of the ship, staring out a long, horizontal window. Though the vessel is quite large with five levels and with different rooms to get lost in, he had been automatically drawn to this particular window embedded in one of the many halls on the second level. The _Drexl_ is a ship in Onderon’s humble fleet that orbits the planet; there is, he notes, an Imperial-like design about it which makes him believe it was commandeered from the Imps about five years ago.

Suspended before the bounty hunter is Dxun, all green and covered with heavy clouds swirling in its humid atmosphere. His eyes roam across its surface as the _Drexl_ flies by it. He feels so close to Vandar and Talia right now that he has to fight an urge to jump into an escape pod and steer it to the Demon Moon. But common sense keeps his boots firmly set onto the cold floor. If he did take a pod, he reasons with himself, it will more than likely crash, too.

 _But at least I’ll be there, looking for them._ Helping _them,_ a rash part of him whispers. He has studied the terrain surrounding the crash sites, and he believes he is more than familiar with the environment to navigate through it successfully. However, he knows he will be acting reckless if he gives into his impatience. It seems that the mission on the Antar estate did not remove all of the pent-up restlessness stirring within him.

During the operation, both Vandar and Talia were at the back of his brain like ghosts. He tried hard not to focus on them too much, especially when he looked up at the night sky. He had forced himself not to think about the dangers they might have encountered in the dark—like camouflaging Maalraas or lurking henchmen. He bets Dxun will be a swampland by the time he is allowed to go there.

He thinks of the baby and wonders if he will have any memory of his unexpected visit to the Demon Moon. Vandar acts and is considered a toddler despite the fact that he is fifty years old. If he is like most little ones and if his guardian is really lucky, chances are Vandar will not recall this chapter in his life, which brings the bounty hunter some comfort.

 _“What’s your earliest memory?”_ he recollects Talia asking him one day.

_“Of what?”_

_“Of your life,”_ she prompted. _“Or of your homeworld. It doesn’t matter.”_ She caught him in a sharing mood, and a part of him wonders if she somehow knew that at the time.

After rolling the question over in his mind, he answered: _“My dad. I tripped over my feet. Must’ve been around four. I wanted his help to get me up, but he just kneeled next to me. Told me that I needed to get up on my own.”_

_“So, he didn’t even offer you a hand?”_

_“Nah,”_ he replied, shaking his head. A fond half-smile played on his lips. _“He just stood up and walked a little bit away from me._ Then _, he offered me a hand.”_ He had taken a moment to enjoy his reminiscing before he asked in return, _“What about you? What’s your earliest memory?”_

As if it was yesterday, he remembers Talia had smiled to herself. Her dark eyes softened as she quietly said, _“My mother’s smile.”_

Well, if Galia’s is as memorable as her daughter’s, then hers must have been stunning. His mind cannot help but conjure up the fond smiles Talia wore whenever she looked at Vandar. Her pink lips would stretch ever so delicately while her gaze emanated compassion and care. Vandar would giggle at her, his pointy green ears twitching with glee that she was paying him so much attention, the little ham.

His eyes focus back onto the window, and he sees that the ship is leaving Dxun behind them. As the green moon disappears from view, he catches sight of a strangely shaped cloud on Dxun’s surface. It reminds him of the head of a Mudhorn with a narrow jaw and long horn sticking out from atop its nose.

 _“Why don’t you have a signet?”_ Talia once asked him. She seemed more curious than condescending, unlike—he figured—most Mandos would be if they enquired about this topic. Back then he was zapped with a flashback of his Armorer who had thought a Mudhorn would be a good signet for him. But since he did not believe that he was worthy of it, he regretfully vetoed the suggestion.

 _“I haven’t earned mine yet,”_ he told his friend. There was a curtness in his tone that he had not meant to bleed through, and Talia heard it because she began apologizing.

_“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”_

_“It’s fine,”_ he dismissed it, trying to sound nonchalant about the matter. _“My time will come. What’s your Clan’s?”_

 _“Kex uses the Mythosaur,”_ she replied, dropping her gaze for a moment. _“But its skull is purple on a black background.”_

 _“Or the other way around?”_ After she nodded, he asked, _“So . . . why purple?”_

Her answer had intrigued him.

 _“It’s known to represent people who are visionaries, like my ancestor, Tagren Kex.”_ Her elegant accent was painted with reverence as she continued. _“Purple’s sometimes seen as a mysterious color because it combines red and blue, opposite colors. It suggests a . . . well, a balance between them. And,”_ she shared, her shoulders straightening just a little bit, _“purple suggests both nobility and spirituality—which is probably why Tagren chose it in the first place. His beliefs in the old Mandalorian religion made him a little . . . superstitious.”_

 _“Something tells me,”_ he noted aloud, eyeing her carefully, _“that if it wasn’t your Clan’s colors, you’d like purple anyways.”_

Talia had chuckled at this. _“Yes, you’re right,”_ she admitted, but she never did explain why.

“Captain Lance said I’d find you here,” an accent-free voice breaks into his thoughts. When he cranes his neck to the right, he finds Rami strolling towards him in all of his black armor’s glory.

The eighteen-year-old and Yasin had been asked by Kavan to accompany the group back to Iziz. Yasin respectfully declined, wishing to break the news of his family’s situation to his older brother; however, Rami accepted. The youngest Nader claimed that he wanted to join the rescue party to Dxun since an important member from his Clan had been stranded there because of his mother’s family. It is an admirable gesture, and honorable, too.

“Does Lance need me?” the bounty hunter asks, returning his gaze out the window. He catches a sliver of the moon before it is out of view completely.

Rami joins him, keeping a respectable distance between them. “No. He just wanted me to tell you that R6 just heard some chatter from the Onderonian meteorologists about Dxun’s weather.”

The news alerts him, and he can feel his body grow rigid. “What’s up?”

“The storm might be getting worse later on today.”

Clenching his jaw, the bounty hunter closes his eyes briefly. He inhales a slow breath before releasing it through his nose. The action fogs up the inside of his helmet for a few seconds. “How much worse?” he questions, his voice deadly quiet.

“Lightning, maybe even hailstones. There might be major flooding. But the weather people have been wrong before,” Rami assures him, and the bounty hunter has half a mind to believe the certainty in his tone.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the kid reach for his black helmet. Smoothly, he takes it off and tucks it under his arm. Not being able to help himself, the bounty hunter glances at Rami, curious to know which parent he resembles.

The youngest Nader looks like his mother, Naila. The bounty hunter had seen holograms of her and notes that she had passed down her dark blue eyes to her son. Like his mother, Rami has an oval-shaped face and a lightly tanned complexion with a small splash of freckles across his cheekbones. His jet-black hair curls into loose ringlets, and he has grown it out long enough to have his locks pulled back into a tiny pony-tail. Yet the bounty hunter can detect features of Qasim in him. It seems that Rami has inherited his father’s determined expression: firmly pressed lips, a wrinkled forehead, and a shrewd gaze.

Before they left the Golden Bustan, he had heard that Rami and his uncle were commended by Kavan for assisting them in unraveling their family’s conspiracies and for joining the operation. But the young man was also ever so slightly reprimanded for slicing his way into the palace’s mainframe, an action that had been pardoned by the Regent with a warning not to do that again—at least, not without an official’s permission.

“So,” Rami begins, “they say you’re a bounty hunter.”

He says nothing in response. Right now, he wants the bearer of bad news to go away before Fate decides to stack the odds against him and Talia at the last moment. He may trust the group’s golden ally a little more since early this morning, but that does not mean he wants to form a bond with him. He has done that with too many people so far during his Onderon trip.

“Do you have any partners?” the young man queries.

“No.”

“Have you _ever_ had partners?”

The curiosity in the kid’s voice tells him that the idea of bounty hunting has more than likely crossed his mind. Since he just might be the only one in this line of work that Rami has met, he would not be surprised if the kid purposefully sought him out so he can use this moment to shift through the idea of joining the Guild. But he does not want Rami, who seems like an honorable member of his Creed, to become another Toro Calican whose glorification of bounty hunting got him killed.

“Yes,” the older man answers. Turning to Rami, he adds, “But you can’t rely on partners in my job. Sooner or later, they’ll betray you just so they can get more credits. Or get a bigger reputation.”

The tone he used was firm and heavy with experience. He watches the younger Mando’s expression fall as if he had been reprimanded—which is what the bounty hunter kind of did.

“It’s no life for someone with family and loved ones,” he explains, softening his voice. He holds Rami’s gaze for a few seconds before facing the window again. Stars twinkle like diamonds as they suspend in the velvety blackness of space.

“It does sound lonely,” he hears his companion admit as if he is giving the bounty hunting job second thoughts. “But no one can do everything on their own. People need others in their lives, to help them out.”

The bounty hunter is torn between laughing at Rami’s naivety or gently explaining to him the reality of his job. In the end, he says, “Doing stuff on my own doesn’t mean I’m alone, kid. It just means I’m strong enough to handle things by myself. Without help. And I’ve managed pretty well so far.” After all, his reputation of being the best hunter in a parsec away from Nevarro has proved it.

Feeling that there is not much for him to add, he gives Rami a farewell nod and leaves him by the window. His feet carry him towards the private room that was specifically assigned to him. He will try to rest while they travel back to Iziz because he just may need all of his strength to argue with the Regent to let him go to Dxun, storm or no storm.

* * *

Yasin Antar (left), Rami Nader (right)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled with this chapter so much. I'm not sure if I was just anxious to get to Dxun or if I'm getting tired (since I've been writing non-stop for a while now). So, I wrote a little bit at a time, trying not to burn myself out because there is still so much I want to share with you all. Again, I'm sorry for the delay, but I hope this longer chapter helps you, my readers, to forgive me.
> 
> I have an idea of another chapter before we get to Dxun, and I'm not sure if I will write or post it up. Chances are, I just may do both within a few days because I feel like I got my writing edge back. Bookmark either this story or the series so you can get updates!
> 
> I can't believe we're in September already. This delay has really not been beneficial in my personal race to get as much of my story written out before the second season of "The Mandalorian." Things will definitely change when it does premiere, and I fear no one will want to read my series afterwards. But I will continue to write and post for my own sake because I need to put my ideas and plots into words. Until next time!


	13. Hell is a Planet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small chapter today. The idea of it has been rattling in my brain for a couple of weeks now. Enjoy!

Chapter XIII: Hell is a Planet

_Location: Unifar Temple, Iziz_

_Time after Dxun crash: 14 hours_

At half past eleven in the morning, the bounty hunter enters an underground chamber beneath the Unifar Temple. It is actually a large training ground for both of the Mandalorian and Onderonian guards. His gray cloak flaps behind him as he briskly walks past the men and women exercising or participating in sparring sessions. He ignores the huffs and grunts and chatter as he marches towards a briefing room specifically set aside for Mandos. Strapped behind him is his Amban sniper rifle, which earns him a few stares, and he has his personal blaster holstered at his side again. Words cannot express how grateful he is to have them back.

Over four hours ago he and the members of the covert operation had arrived in Iziz. He had been anxious for an update on the weather on Dxun and was relieved that the storm did not worsen like the meteorologists had feared. Instead, they hinted that perhaps the weather conditions might dissipate later on that day.

With promising news like this, the bounty hunter was able to eat and sleep for a few hours. His body was exhausted after going non-stop since the day before, and he fell into a deep slumber the instant the back of his helmet-covered head hit a firm yet cozy pillow.

After he woke up, he was summoned by Lance to meet him in the underground briefing room. Apparently, Talia’s situation on Dxun was no longer important enough to be discussed in the Council’s chamber anymore. It irks him that her and Vandar’s safety is now considered a minimal priority compared to Onderonian politics.

When he arrives at the correct room, he finds Lance and his father there, going over a list of the men they had chosen to travel to Dxun when the time came. Both are wearing their armor, yet they had removed their helmets. Only Lance nods at the bounty hunter when he enters.

“I’ve been told,” Ryk’ken continues speaking with his son, “that you’re going to need a new medic to go with you to Dxun. Jax had a family emergency that took him to the other side of Iziz.”

The bounty hunter walks up to the square holotable; the other men are on his left. A projection of the Demon Moon is hovering above them, shining green, and he spies another hologram of the Tomb of Freedon Nadd.

“I have the perfect replacement,” he hears Lance say. “She’s new to District 1’s militia, but she came highly recommended from up North.”

“Have you met her before?”

“Yeah. Her first day. She’s feisty, but she seems good at her job.”

“Then go recruit her,” Ryk’ken requests. “Give her a run-down of what to expect while I catch Traxell up to speed on what’s been going on.”

Lance nods at his father and exits the room, his blood-red armor glinting in the lights. The bounty hunter feels slightly disappointed as he watches the Captain disappear. Being left alone with the Viceroy is something he would prefer to avoid. So far, neither of them has been able to have a peaceful conversation without insulting one another.

“Are we moving out?” he asks, keeping his tone devoid of hope.

“Not for a few hours.”

“So, we can leave today then?”

Ryk’ken nods, running a dark hand through his short, black hair. “The storm’s breaking up, slowly. We might have an opening between five and seven tonight, so the team’s on stand-by just in case.”

Automatically, the bounty hunter calculates how long he will have to wait, and he figures less than five-and-a-half hours from now. He stops himself from determining how many minutes that is by asking the other man for a layout of the rescue plan and for a list of team members accompanying them.

Time drags by as Ryk’ken obliges him, giving him the details of the operation. It has been arranged that two transport ships will be sent to Dxun. The first will drop off a group meant to investigate the crash sites and to pick up any survivors while the second ship will hover above the Tomb so another team can scour the crumbling sepulcher in search of Talia and Vandar. Ryk’ken goes over protocol with him and explains that this is an all-Mando operation, a factor that relaxes the bounty hunter.

When he is informed that Ryk’ken will not be joining the rescue party, he is momentarily taken aback. Like him, the other man has been just as distracted about the situation on Dxun. But then, as Viceroy and Clan Leader, an operation like this would not be appropriate for someone with such high authority to participate in. And if the bounty hunter is being honest, he is glad Ryk’ken is staying on Onderon. The last thing they need is for the two of them to butt heads and cause friction amongst their fellow clan members.

Pacing around the holotable, the bounty hunter keeps glancing at the image of Dxun. Worry for his two companions begins to gnaw at him. With a rescue attempt only hours away, his mind cannot stop from conjuring up the state that he may find both Talia and Vandar in. Are they starving? Are they cold and wet from the rain? Did they sustain any injury like broken bones or sprained ankles from the crash? Will Vandar be emotionally scarred from this ordeal? Is the little one scared out of his mind or confused as to what is going on? Is he clinging to Talia like a child would to his parent?

“Calm down,” he hears Ryk’ken call out to him. His deep voice is steady, and when the bounty hunter glances over his shoulder at him, he notices that Ryk’ken seems relaxed—perhaps too relaxed.

“As Talia’s best friend,” he verbally pokes, “I’m surprised you’re not pacing, too. Aren’t you worried about her? And as a parent,” he adds, “I would’ve thought you’d understand.”

“Of course, I’m worried, Traxell,” the Viceroy says, his pale green eyes flashing with offense. “And I’m sorry you’re going through this with your kid. Putting him in danger wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“But it did.”

“Which I regret, deeply.” The dark-skinned man sighs. “Lord Kavan and the King are keeping me accountable for my actions. I just hope Tallie forgives me,” he murmurs to himself. “What must she think of me?”

Hearing Ryk’ken’s last words annoys the bounty hunter more than the maniacal laugh of a lizard-monkey. He scoffs at how forlorn he looks and snaps through a clenched jaw, “Some friend you are, _Dacob_. All you care about right now is Talia’s opinion of you and not her life. Nor the life of a baby.”

What he said were fighting words, and he expects the other man to either challenge him to a Mandalorian Circle or to just skip the formalities and lunge at him this very instant. Surprisingly, Ryk’ken does neither of those things. Instead, he simply glances in his direction, his eyes roaming over the bounty hunter’s helmet. There is a strange calmness settling across his usual grim expression.

Two heartbeats pass before Ryk’ken replies, “Talia can take care of herself, Traxell. I’ve learned a long time ago that she always finds a way home.” His gaze turns distant as he remarks aloud, “She’s more than a survivor. She’s a fighter.”

“A warrior,” the bounty hunter corrects. “She’s an orphan-turned-warrior. Like me.” At this, the Viceroy focuses his attention back onto him, his eyes squinting at him with a hint of jealousy, but he ignores it, revealing, “I learned that back on Cholganna.”

The nod Ryk’ken sends him is curt. “I’ve known that for almost as long as I’ve known her. But it didn’t really hit me until five years ago.”

Sensing that the other man may expand if gently pressed, the bounty hunter walks closer to him, finds a bench to sit on, and nods at him. “Was this before or after the Empire fell?” he asks, his tone curious.

“After.”

From the guarded expression on Ryk’ken’s face, he has a feeling the Clan Leader is debating whether to share with him about Talia’s past. So, the bounty hunter waits, forcing himself not to press anymore just in case Ryk’ken clams up.

“There was a mission,” the Viceroy begins quietly. His shoulders look heavy as he settles himself on a nearby chair. “Talia’s worked with the Rebel Alliance over the years, and she sometimes dragged me along with her.”

“How’d she get involved with them?” the bounty hunter queries. “From a Rebel branch here on Onderon?”

“Yes and no. She helped pass on and gather intelligence here, but it was her old Coruscant contacts and friends from the Clone War that got her started with the Rebels. Or, that’s what she told me. Whenever they reached out for help, she always found an excuse to go off-world.”

“She said she’s done some suicide missions for the Rebels.”

Ryk’ken nods with a playful scoff. “Yeah. Those were the only ones she’d do. A special ragtag team was assigned to her. What they did was really top secret. Most of the members are dead.”

“What happened five years ago?” the bounty hunter wonders, trying to steer the other man back to their original topic.

“The Alliance needed her help again. It was a dangerous assignment about rescuing people with gifts, like telekinesis. Just like your kid.”

“And Zeb,” he supplies.

“She told you about him?”

“Just a little.”

“Join the club,” Ryk’ken laughs, almost bitterly. “She doesn’t talk much about him. I wouldn’t be surprised if you know more than me, Traxell. But because of Zeb, she was interested in anything related to gifted people.”

The bounty hunter listens as Ryk’ken explains that the Empire had a laboratory dedicated to experimenting on gifted individuals. Most of the prisoners ranged from children to young adults. If the Empire heard about anyone born with a telekinetic ability, they would send a person called an Inquisitor to determine how powerful the gifted individual was. Nine chances out of ten, the Inquisitor would take the poor soul. There were whispers that, if a telekinetic did not become an Inquisitor, then they were sent to the lab to be experimented on. The gifted people were studied and tested like rats. A few projects were focused on extracting their special ability so it could be transferred to another person, and there were some that tried to extend a telekinetic’s lifespan by sucking out another gifted’s abilities.

“I’m sure you can see why Talia would be interested in this,” Ryk’ken comments. “The Rebels only heard whispers of this place like most of us did. But a former Prime Minster of Telos told them about it. Her son was taken by the Empire when he was five, about a few years earlier. She wanted the Alliance to save her son and destroy the lab in exchange for her support in rebuilding the Republic.”

“That’s a big ask,” the bounty hunter notes with a quiet scoff.

“Which is why she gave them the lab’s location,” Ryk’ken lists, “what little schematics of the base she was able to get her hands on, years’ worth of intelligence, people to help out—anything she could do to convince the Rebels to help. She’d done her homework. And that made things a little easy.”

“So, where was the lab? On a space station? A planet?”

Ryk’ken does not answer immediately, and the bounty hunter can see him press his lips together. A heaviness fills the room as he murmurs, “Mustafar.”

Shaking his head, the bounty hunter says, “Never been.”

“You don’t ever want to find yourself there,” the Viceroy warns, his eyes suddenly haunted. “It’s a planet completely covered with volcanoes and rivers of lava. The only thing you’ll find there is death and scorching heat. It was . . . it was _haran_ *, as far as the eye can see.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: HAH-rahn; translation: “hell”; meaning: literally, destruction, cosmic annihilation)_

As if to emphasize his point, Ryk’ken returns to the holotable. After a few keystrokes he exchanges the hologram of Dxun for one featuring a flaming red planet. Its surface swirls with orange and yellow, and for some reason, the bounty hunter can almost feel its heat from where he is sitting. There is something ominous and nightmarish about this planet, making him agree with Ryk’ken: Mustafar does indeed look like hell.

“Darth Vader was one of the overseers of the lab,” he hears Ryk’ken share. “Mustafar’s his planet, so that’s not surprising. Nothing good can every come from that cursed wasteland.” He pauses, his eyes fixed on the hologram. “You know, the Imps called the lab ‘Born-again Base.’ But Talia renamed it ‘Haran Base.’”

“Fitting.”

“Yeah, we all thought so.” Ryk’ken presses some buttons, turning off the hologram of Mustafar. When he allows the projection of Dxun to reappear from the holotable, the bounty hunter has never been so happy to see the moon’s green surface again.

“How many people went with you?” he asks.

“A small squad and a few fighter pilots.”

Ryk’ken further explains that the reason why the mission was considered suicide was not just because Mustafar was an extremely deadly lava planet. Haran Base was a fortress that a lot of gifted and non-gifted Imperials ran to after both the Emperor and Vader were defeated. It was located not only at the top of a cliff but was also situated beside a river of lava that plummeted like a fiery waterfall. A communications spire sat on the topside of the building, which had at least four levels embedded underneath and inside the stone cliff. The remaining Imperials there had put the base on high-alert; the shields were active, and everything was on lockdown. According to their intel, those still stubbornly loyal to the Empire were stocked up with weapons and had in their ranks over three-hundred guards consisting of storm-troopers, gifted Inquisitors, and droids.

“Yeah,” the bounty hunter says, “sounds like suicide to me.” He doubts the Rebels had many volunteers to undertake this operation. “How’d you pull it off?”

The fighter pilots flew over the base, shooting at it. They and a small group positioned in the nearby precipices distracted the Imps while he, Talia, and three others scaled Haran’s cliff. Their team of five used mining droids with force-fields to reach the top without getting fried. After having the droids dig for them, they were able to penetrate the base’s defenses. Once inside, they separated. Ryk’ken and their companions made their way to the command center to disarm the shields and guide Talia through the levels towards the labs and the prisoners’ holding cells.

“So, she went off on her own?” the bounty hunter clarifies, thinking that sounded just like his reckless friend.

The other man nods before scratching underneath his chin. “I’d never seen her fight like she did: cold but fiery. She was almost . . . merciless.” Ryk’ken shakes his head as if he still cannot believe what he saw. “She didn’t look like herself, not at all. There was . . . this gold glint in her eyes the deeper we went inside. And the more Imps she killed.”

“She was determined, Ryk’ken.”

“Nah. It was more than that. It was like she was . . . obsessed.”

The bounty hunter would not have blamed her if what the Viceroy said was true. Obviously, the mission was personal to her, and he is sure her beloved uncle had been in the forefront of her thoughts. His telekinetic gift, the same one that Vandar has, appears to be sacred to Talia, which is why she is so protective of the little one. He knows her good heart would have been bleeding for those poor souls experimented on in that terrible place.

“I tried to keep an eye on her,” Ryk’ken admits with a heavy sigh. “To make sure she didn’t do anything she’d regret.”

He shares that, after his team took the command center, he was able to watch her through the surveillance cameras. While they were disabling the base’s shields, he saw Talia cut through both storm-troopers and droids like waves bombarding a shore. But there had been so much chaos and shooting the further she delved into the base that the cameras were destroyed.

“All I heard were the sounds of blaster fire,” her best friend describes. He clasps his hands on his lap then decides against it and begins fiddling with his thumbs. “I could hear her blade slicing through whatever got in her way. I was so happy listening to her grunts over our comms—they told me she was still alive. But I felt my heart jolt when everything went silent on her end.”

“Was her comms blocked?”

“Damaged,” the other man reveals. “I tried getting to her through her personal commlink, but she didn’t answer.”

The mission is almost starting to sound like what happened yesterday, with Talia’s voice being cut off unexpectantly while talking with him. When the bounty hunter sneaks a glance at Ryk’ken, he sees that he is still haunted by this memory. He knows only too well the fear that must have gripped him, the dread that formed right in the pit of his stomach.

Ryk’ken tells him that his fear nearly crippled him, but his teammates shook it out of him. They figured Talia was still alive because the gifted prisoners kept flowing from the turbolifts. So, they and the rest of their squad evacuated the poor souls as fast as they could before they heard an alarm, louder than the others, blaring like a Rancor. It told them that the entire base was entering into self-destruct mode.

“There was nothing we could do about it. We couldn’t turn it off or delay it,” he says. “We had to get everyone we could out. The Alliance sent transport ships, shuttles, anything to help. Most of the Imps were dead or just too focused on evacuating themselves to stop us.”

“And Talia was still missing?” the bounty hunter asks despite the fact that he already knows the answer.

Though he wanted to go after her, Ryk’ken tells him that he had to put the mission first and hoped Talia was all right. Before he knew it, he was on a shuttle about to take off from the base. He had searched the entire ship looking for her. He even asked the coherent gifteds if they had seen Talia, but no one knew where she was. Unfortunately, the only thing left for him to do was to trust that she had found her way onto another transport.

“I contacted everyone else in our squad,” he confesses, rubbing his eyes. “My ship was flying away, and I had to know if she was with any of them.”

He had been horrified that no one had heard from or seen her since the mission began, and he was about to tell their pilot to drop him off back to the lab when Haran Base exploded. The impact rocked their transport, causing some people to fall out of their seats. The entire lab was up in flames or crumbling from the cliff into the lava below. With a thick voice, Ryk’ken says he was so overcome with shock that he fell to his knees, staring at the smoking, molten remnants of the monstrous base.

“And that’s when I heard Tallie’s voice over the comms,” he chuckles, but the bounty hunter can detect remnants of exasperation from that time in Ryk’ken’s deep voice. “She’d found a small ship—the head scientist’s personal shuttle in fact—and was following us.”

Talia’s vessel had gotten a little fried because she had been still very close to the explosion. After exchanging pleasantries with her squad, to let them know she was alive, her shuttle raced past the other transports and headed for the Rebel ship in the atmosphere. The Viceroy shares that, despite her attempt to be cheerful, she had sounded cold, detached. But he had been so relieved she was alive that he did not think much of it.

When he reunited with her, she seemed distant. She admitted she was the one who had set off the base’s self-destruct protocol, claiming that what the Imps did there deserved to be burned to ash. Though her face was smeared with soot and looked as hard as stone, her voice was shaking. Ryk’ken points out that he had noticed her eyes were watery, but she did not cry. Instead, she clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug into her palms, causing them bleed.

“I hadn’t seen her look so frail,” he confides. “Not even when her father left. I convinced her to go to the med-bay, and she ended up crying in my arms for a few minutes. I thought she was going to have a mental breakdown.”

“Didn’t she?” the bounty hunter wonders because he thinks that any normal person would have every right to have one.

“No, she calmed down when she saw the people she rescued,” Ryk’ken says softly, a half-smile playing at his lips. “She helped save about thirty. I guess seeing them was a balm to her soul. No one could drag her away from the med-bay after that. She stayed with the patients for the rest of the trip back to the Alliance’s territory. She even helped some of them find a place to stay where they could be left alone in peace and practice their gifts.”

 _That_ piques the bounty hunter’s interest. His mind reverts to his ward, and he wonders if Talia hopes to take Vandar to this special safe haven.

“Where are they?” he asks. “Those gifteds?”

Ryk’ken shrugs his shoulders, much to his dismay. “I don’t know. She won’t say. Said she promised not to.”

 _Maybe she’ll make an exception with the kid,_ he thinks to himself.

“I am more than confident that Talia’s okay right now,” the Viceroy declares as he stands to his feet. “Because of Mustafar, I’m not worried about her.”

The phrase “and you shouldn’t be either” lingers between them. The bounty hunter nods, but his concern for her and Vandar is still wrestling inside him. Yet he knows he will feel like himself again when his two companions are safe and sound with him on Onderon.

“Thanks,” he replies. “For telling me this. Talia . . . hasn’t told me much about her connections with the Rebels.”

Ryk’ken nods in understanding, and his face softens. “There are just some things that even a Mandalorian can’t boast about.”

“There are times when I don’t think she’s being very honest with me,” the bounty hunter ventures to say. “She can be like an open book one moment then a clam all of a sudden.”

“Sounds like Tallie. But you’re not alone, Traxell. I’ve felt that, too. And I grew up with her,” he chuckles. “But everyone has a chapter they just don’t read out loud. And she’s no exception.”

The men nod at one another, and a layer of awkwardness floats in the air. So far, they have not exchanged insults and sarcastic remarks, which is indeed a rare thing. The “friendly” territory feels strange for the bounty hunter, and he finds himself wanting—ever so slightly—to return to their previous hostility because it is familiar to him.

Ryk’ken drops his gaze to the floor and clears his throat. “You’re not half bad, Traxell. I’ve been acting like a _shabuir_ * with you. And I shouldn’t have. I’ve heard it said that a jealous attitude can cause a person to mistreat people who could’ve been a benefit. And I’ve done that for long enough.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: SHAH-boo-EER; translation: “jerk” but much stronger; significance: extreme insult)_

When he says nothing else, the bounty hunter merely nods at him. _And I guess that’s the closest thing I’ll get to an apology from him,_ he muses to himself, trying not to feel slighted by it.

A chime from the holotable breaks the discomfort between them. Ryk’ken presses a button, and a medium-sized hologram of Lord Kavan takes the place of the other projections.

“My Regent?”

 _“Viceroy Ryk’ken,”_ Kavan flatly greets with a nod. _“I’m to inform you that the King requests your presence in the throne room right now.”_

At this, the bounty hunter watches Ryk’ken bow in acquiescence. “I’m on my way, my Lord,” he replies.

The projection flickers off, allowing the table to again feature its previous holograms. The Clan Leader squares his shoulders and takes in a deep breath.

“Sounds serious,” the bounty hunter observes.

“I’m sure it is.” Ryk’ken then turns before sending him a dignified and even respectful nod. “Traxell.”

“Ryk’ken.”

He watches the other man head for the door. It slides open, granting access to Lance and a female Mandalorian. He barely notices Ryk’ken leave because his attention narrows in on the woman accompanying the young Captain. His eyes widen a little when he registers that the new medic Lance recruited is none other than Clae, the Mando he had met his second day on Onderon.

If her helmet was not clipped to her belt, he would not have recognized her. Clae’s armor is not the one she had been wearing over a month ago. It is smooth and dark gray with strips of lavender on her helmet, thigh-guards, and rangefinder. There are no signs of thick spikes stemming from her guantlets and shoulder coverings like her previous armor, but he notices her Zakkeg signet on her right, upper-arm guard. That and the Mythosaur symbol, which is on her left arm, are both highlighted in lavender, along with her Iron Heart embedded in the middle of her chest-plate. He surveys a grape-colored cloak behind her and a sash wrapped around her waist, which is also underneath a belt stocked with numerous pouches.

 _Her Clan must be sworn to Kex,_ he figures to himself with a smirk. _No wonder she seemed so defensive of Talia._

He notices two braids, brown and blonde, hanging over Clae’s left shoulder, and he assumes that the colors must identify which Mando Militia she belongs to. Her long-sleeved tunic, trousers, belt, and gloves are all navy blue, and she has donned a pair of dark gray boots which match her armor. Dangling from her belt is a hefty-looking blaster, and a large medical rucksack is strapped to her back.

As she struts closer to him, Clae sends him a playful smile. “Well, well, well,” she greets him, her slanted accent crisp with amusement. “Imagine muh surprise when t’e Lieutenant here—oh, excuse me— _Captain_ , mentioned yer name, Traxell.” She stops in front of him, their gazes at eye-level. “I thought it was ye, but how could it be? So, I had him describe yer armor, ’n’ I told him, ‘Yep, that’s t’e Traxell I met a while ago.’”

His smirk turns into a grin as he replies, “I’m surprised you remembered me, Clae. Still betting on Fighting Circles?”

Clae lets out an unladylike snort and grins at him. “Here ’n’ t’ere in fact. ’N’ it’s kinda hard ta forget gorgeous armor like yours, Traxell.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Lance suppressing a smile. Though he only met Clae once for a few minutes, that meeting had been long enough for him to know that she is blunt and outspoken and does not care what is considered appropriate or not—which reminds him just why he likes the button-nosed woman.

“Almost didn’t recognize you,” he remarks, nodding at her armor.

“Compliments of muh job as a medic,” she announces, and he is unprepared for the wink she sends his way. “Flattered ye noticed.”

Clae’s hazel eyes sparkle with flirtation, and the scar on her upper lip is more distinguished when she smiles. Her olive-tone skin gleams in the light as she wiggles her brown eyebrows at him. A second passes before Clae lets out a hearty laugh, clearly amused at her own attempt to flirt with him. Both he and Lance exchange amused looks.

The bounty hunter sees that the left side of Clae’s head still features straight, brown hair that has been cut short. While it hangs beside her freckled cheek, the right side is bare unlike the last time he had seen her, meaning she must have just recently shaved her head. And it is on that very same side that shows off her ear-piercings all along her right ear. Studs and small loops are fastened there, “filling up” the uncovered area.

“Lance says you come highly recommended,” he comments after Clae stifles her laughter.

“She does,” the Captain affirms, walking towards the holotable.

“I do,” she repeats, but she does not follow her superior officer. Her voice is quiet when she says to him, “When you asked me about Lady Talia, I didn’t know you guys were close. It’s a shame she knows what you look like underneath this.” Clae taps at his helmet and walks away before he can correct her.

 _Feisty indeed,_ he thinks as he joins Lance at the holotable.

While the Captain shows their new medic the rescue plans on Dxun, the bounty hunter studies her. The woman in her early thirties reminds him of Cara Dune, teasing him about the women in his life. But at least Cara was not so uncouth about it—a thought that makes him feel that he has been too unkind to Clae. He watches her expression turn serious as she listens to Lance and asks him questions about Talia’s and Vandar’s health conditions before the crash. With her playfulness gone for the moment, he does not doubt that Clae really is a good medic.

 _Let’s hope Vandar won’t need her,_ he says to himself. _Or Talia._

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_About an hour and forty-five minutes later . . ._

It is exactly two in the afternoon, and the bounty hunter is reclining on his assigned bunk in one of the barracks belonging to Mandalorians. He has just been informed that Baron Mahdi and Lady Lupe have been exiled from the Japrael System for their wrongdoings—depending on Talia and Vandar’s status. They have less than twenty-four hours to say ‘good-bye’ to their loved ones, make any last-minute business arrangements, and pack up whatever they may need.

Although he is surprised that justice has been issued faster than he expected, he approves of the sentence. After all, none of the Antars’ intended targets have been killed—which explains the absence of the death penalty, unless his two companions are found dead on Dxun. By King Ridha himself, they have each been found guilty of planting evidence against the Minister of Trade, two assassination attempts, and the kidnapping of a child. Mahdi Antar has been stripped of his lands, wealth, and baronetcy title, all of which will be passed down to his eldest son, Sharif. Meanwhile, Lupe Antar’s small home in Kira City and her humble fortune will be inherited by her deceased sister’s sons, Ziad and Rami.

 _She must’ve really hated that,_ the bounty hunter muses to himself.

Captain Krayt, along with R6, is the one who had told him the news. He also shared with him about the reprimand that Ryk’ken received for the part he played in this conspiracy. Lord Kavan was sanctioned by the King to inform Ryk’ken that if he should ever abuse his power and authority as Clan Leader and Viceroy again for personal reasons or gain, then he will be dismissed from the Onderonian Court, removed from the Royal Council, and ultimately disgraced as a Mandalorian. It was the last part that made the bounty hunter wince; the idea of being stripped of his honor, Tribe, and armor was unbearable.

In response, Ryk’ken had apologized for his actions and swore never to let something like this happen again. Krayt mentioned that the Viceroy looked both ashamed and guilt-stricken as he retreated from the throne room.

 _“Well, after being chewed out like that,”_ the bounty hunter had said, _“who wouldn’t be?”_

Krayt and R6 did not stay long, for which he was grateful for. Ever since he parted ways with Lance nearly two hours ago, he has been trying to rest and gather his strength because instinct told him to. So, he listened, even though the weather conditions on Dxun have not changed.

As he continues to recline on his bunk, the door to the sleeping quarters swooshes open. A flash of red races inside, and he soon finds himself staring up at Lance. With his wide brown eyes and eager expression on his darkly tanned face, the Captain looks younger than his eighteen years.

“Traxell! It’s time!”

The bounty hunter feels his heart stop for a second before he jumps off his mattress. “You mean . . . ?”

“Yeah. We’re heading to Dxun, _ner burc’ya_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

“When?” he demands, his blood already pumping with adrenaline.

“In thirty minutes.”

* * *

Born-again Base / Haran Base:

Re-introducing Clae (from Chapter 1 of _HoH_ ), featuring her new armor:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so relieved that "The Mandalorian" Season 2 is coming out the last Friday in October. I have a few surprises up my sleeve in Part 3, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to dish them out before the premiere. But now I believe I can! As long as I keep a strict schedule, I might finish Part 3 either the week of the premiere or after (hopefully, the week of). I'm writing and jotting down notes furiously!


	14. Mar'e

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the chapter I hope, dear readers, you have been waiting for!

Chapter XIV: _Mar'e_

_Location: Dxun_

_Time after Dxun crash: 23 hours (3:30 pm)_

The transport ship rumbles in the air, its side-doors tightly closed. There are no windows to let the bounty hunter see their progress, but he knows they have been flying in Dxun’s airspace for the past ten minutes. He casts a glance over his shoulder, the red lights above illuminating the inside of the small ship. Teamed with him are Captain Lance, Deke, Clae the Medic, Kurs, Rami Nader, and two other Mandalorians—he forgets their names. He thinks they rhymed. Bez and Mez? Or is it Pez and Nez?

Not really caring at the moment, he faces forward again and continues to stare at the closed doors. His back feels heavier than normal. Like the rest of his fellow Mandos, he is carrying the jet-pack that has been assigned to him. He has not worn or used one of these devices for several years now. His Tribe calls training with one ‘The Rising Phoenix,’ but he learned that the Dxun Mandos have a different name for it: ‘The Winged Drexl.’ Though he has wanted to earn the jet-pack and add it to his expertise, he finds himself feeling a little nervous about using it. Thankfully, he will not be doing any fancy flying with it, just a quick descent from the transport to the ground.

Also strapped to his back is his sniper rifle; however, its presence behind him has prevented him from joining the others on the ship’s built-in benches. Since there was no way he planned on leaving his prized weapon on Onderon, he does not mind standing up for the thirty-minute trip. Besides, even if he could sit down, he doubts he would be able to keep still.

 _“Bravo Team arrived at the crash sites,”_ Lance announces over the comms.

About ten minutes ago, that other group of Mandos had broken off from them while Alpha Team headed straight for the Tomb of Freedon Nadd. A small part of the bounty hunter had feared that Talia and Vandar might still be at the crash sites and that he was going to the wrong location. But the Onderonian surveillance notified them about blaster-fire activity in the area around the Tomb, which reinforced the general assumption that Talia would find refuge in her ancestor’s resting place. The knowledge gave him a sense of relief, but only for a moment. Concern assaulted him again when he realized that his companions had been the cause of a small battle over an hour ago.

“Approaching the Tomb now!” he hears their pilot inform them, his voice loud enough to be heard over the purring engines. “Get ready to jump out the side-doors in less than four minutes!”

At this, his ears pick up the sound of his fellow Mandos rising to their feet and shuffling to the exits. He can feel them bump into him, their Beskar clanking against his. Three team members stand behind him, their backs to him as they wait for their door to slide open. Meanwhile, Lance and Rami position themselves on either side of the bounty hunter. When he nods at them, his muscles tense with anticipation. They all hang onto the leather straps above the door to help steady them as the ship flies closer to their drop-off zone.

Over the comms, Lance says in his accent-free voice, _“Remember, Mandos: finding Lady Talia and Vandar are our_ highest _priorities! We’re sanctioned to remove anyone who tries to stop us.”_

“Even if it’s Cass?” Rami, clad in his black armor, asks loudly.

“Cass is mine!” the bounty hunter announces over the comms. A growl had emerged from his throat, and he hopes his fellow Mandos take heed to the warning dripping in it.

 _“Well, the King_ would prefer it _if we bring Cass into custody,”_ Lance reminds them all. _“He needs to answer for his crimes.”_

“Opening doors now!” the pilot interrupts.

A few squeaks penetrate the buzzing air as the doors slide open, revealing a sky thick with clouds above and various shades of endless green zipping by down below. In the West the bounty hunter can see a break in the overcast weather. A sharp wind whips through the transport’s exposed insides, and humidity crawls its way past his armor and tunic and clings onto his skin.

 _“We’re in the jungle now,_ verda* _,”_ Lance remarks, and the bounty hunter can hear a smile in his tone. _“Remember what Tagren Kex said: ‘Shoot anything that moves. Then . . .’”_

 _(_ * _pronounced: VAIR-dah; translation [plural]: “warriors”)_

 _“‘. . . shoot the things that don’t move, just to be sure,’”_ everyone except the bounty hunter finishes. He can hear Clae bark out a laugh while Deke releases a hoot loud enough to be heard from the ground below.

The ship approaches the ancient tomb of Freedon Nadd with its tall spire and crumbling statues. The roars of the ship’s engines are almost unbearably loud as they hover above the stone sepulcher. As it nestles against the mountain walls of Nadd Valley, an impenetrable jungle surrounds the Tomb. The bounty hunter figures that the open-space between it and the man-made structure is about twenty-five feet.

The instant the transport stops moving and hovers above the Tomb, Lance jumps out first and turns on his jet-pack in mid-air. His action spurs the rest of them, and the bounty hunter is the second person off the ship. For two seconds, he falls from the sky, the feeling of gravity’s pull sending adrenaline throughout his body. Quickly, he activates his jet-pack, and its thrusters act as a brake before carrying him higher into the air. Remembering how to maneuver with the new device, he steers himself towards the Tomb’s entrance whilst descending.

He concentrates on steadying his breath and calming his jitters. As a slight distraction, he surveys the infamous burial place of Onderon’s feared sorcerer. The once pristine statues of Nadd are unrecognizable and are not as tall as they had been. Most of the stone figures’ arms have been amputated with time, and Nadd’s hooded faces have crumbled beyond recognition. After thousands of years, the statues are merely rocky formations still managing to stand above the jungle.

Glancing around him, he sees his fellow Mandos descend. Lance has almost reached the ground when dark figures suddenly run out of the jungle’s tree-line. The bounty hunter counts five, and in a matter of seconds, red blaster fire shoots into the air.

 _“Enemy down below!”_ Lance says over the comms. _“Tree-line at my three o’clock! I count five!”_

A bolt whizzes past the bounty hunter, but the shot was poorly aimed, missing him by at least a yard. In response, he yanks out his pistol and opens fire, covering Lance who is using the Tomb’s aisle-like entrance and its stone walls as a defensive position. Still about three feet in the air, the bounty hunter turns off his jet-pack. His boots sink into the mushy ground while he simultaneously shoots at the Antar men.

As he settles behind Lance, he sees Rami and the rhyming-named Mandos flying into the jungle, drawing the henchmen’s attention away from the rest of the team. Kurs and Deke land atop the walls of the Tomb’s entrance while Clae positions herself next to the bounty hunter.

 _“Taken one out already, Captain,”_ they all hear Rami report. _“We’ve moving in on the rest of them.”_

“Great work, Nader.”

Before Lance can say anything more, a laser bolt pings off the stone wall, inches from his helmet. The bounty hunter spins around and notices three figures down the paved path to the Tomb’s doors.

“Watch your six!” he shouts to his team. He releases a series of red laser bolts at the enemy and takes cover behind a pile of rocks which looks like an arm from one of the Nadd statues. Deke and Kurs join him, also firing at the hostiles.

“They’re retreating into t’e Tomb!” Deke shouts over the mini-battle, and the bounty hunter feels his gut twist. Something tells him that the three targets should _not_ be allowed to disappear into the sepulcher.

“Talia’s in there!” he says, squeezing his trigger twice.

“How do you know?” Kurs asks. His forest-green armor blends in with the tangled vines growing over the hard stone.

“I just do,” he snaps. “Cover me!”

Without warning he darts from behind their shield of rocks and finds another place to hide. Blue bolts, compliments of his comrades, race over his head, and he hopes they found their targets. His heart bangs inside his chest so hard he is surprised his Beskar armor is not rattling. Taking a moment to steady his breathing, he retreats from his temporary refuge and makes a bee-line for the three hostiles. Again, Kurs and Deke protect him by sending cover-fire, yet it proves to be unnecessary because he does not see the hostiles anymore.

 _“Where’d they go?”_ Deke asks over the comms, his slanted accent painted with exasperation.

 _“Traxell,”_ Kurs warns, _“I saw them hide behind the end of the aisle. Be careful. We’re right behind you.”_

“Copy that!”

 _“Clae’s going to help the others clear the tree-line,”_ they hear Lance report. _“I’m heading to the Tomb with you guys.”_

The bounty hunter slows down his pace when he comes across three bodies on the stone ground; they are a trail of death leading him towards the Tomb’s doors. The lifeless bodies of the Antar men are drenched with rain. Blood from their blaster wounds had flowed from their chests and are now painting the pavement scarlet. He notes that each man has been killed with a single shot to the heart, and he has a strong feeling that they must have stumbled across Talia earlier that day—a deadly mistake indeed. He of all people should know that she is a crack shot.

Satisfaction warms a small part of his chest as he side-steps over the bodies and continues up the inclined aisle. An eerie feeling runs up his spine, making his gut churn with uneasiness. The blaster fire in the jungle is almost swallowed up by an oppressive silence emanating from the Tomb itself. He looks up at the tall spire reaching for the clouds, its sharp end reminding him of a vibroblade.

A whine then a shout penetrates the unusual stillness, and he quickens his pace. _“Snap out of it, you fool!”_ he hears someone hiss in Nikto. He remembers there is one more bounty hunter of that species who had escaped to this Demon Moon; it is the same person who kidnapped the baby.

Wondering who that surviving Nikto is talking to, his ears pick up another bark from him in that alien tongue: “ _Get a grip!”_ Silence instills itself again until he hears a disgusted scoff, then: _“Fine stay here and die!”_

The bounty hunter is almost at the end of the walled-in aisle. Over the comms, he deduces that his three companions are thoroughly examining the dead bodies behind him. He tunes them out as he approaches the corner of the aisle with soundless steps.

Suddenly, he comes face-to-face with a balding Onderonian. The man is pointing his blaster at him, but his determined look melts into surprise then horror in a millisecond. The bounty hunter reacts without hesitation. He head-butts the hostile. His Beskar helmet absorbs the impact, and he hears more than feels the sickening sound of bone splintering against iron. The Onderonian is still too stunned to even cry out in pain, which gives the bounty hunter a moment to kick the hostile’s feet from under him. Before the other man lands on the ground, the bounty hunter lowers his weapon and points it downward, squeezes the trigger, and walks past his fallen enemy, turning the corner. He does not even check to see if his aim is true because if the shot does not kill the other man, the concussion he gave him will in a matter of minutes.

Any sense of victory is cut short when his gaze lands on the sniveling, conniving man who is responsible for this entire mess: Bezden Cass. The coward is huddled behind some rocks, whimpering. The bounty hunter raises his pistol at him and is about to pull the trigger when a hard body unexpectedly slams into him.

 _“Traxell, you okay?”_ he hears Lance ask him over the comms since he is currently out of view.

“Fine,” he grits behind clenched teeth as he wrestles with his opponent.

A Green Nikto is on top of him, the last member of the Nikto gang, the Black Flame. Already, his thin fingers are trying to squeeze the breath out of him. Pinned to the hard pavement, the bounty hunter can feel the tips of the Nikto’s claws digging into his covered neck. This hostile, with his black eyes and vicious sneer, is bigger than the other Black Flame members. The Nikto’s strength, the bounty hunter has to admit, surpasses his own. So, instead of yanking the scaly hands off, he bends his leg up and has his fingers scramble for the vibroblade stashed away in his boot.

With one hand he does his best to choke the Nikto in return, as a distraction, while his other finally wraps around his hidden blade. The green-skinned alien tightens his hold around his airway, and the bounty hunter’s vision begins to turn blurry. He forces himself to concentrate then plunges his knife into the Nikto’s side. A deep growl is released from the hostile, yet the tight grip around the bounty hunter’s neck does not falter. If anything, it grows stronger.

So, he forces his blade to go deeper into the Nikto. As if the knife is a part of him, he can feel its sharp edge cut through flesh and organs. Like always, the sensation almost makes his grip on his weapon loosen, and he is tempted to just release the blade altogether, but he smashes that cowardly feeling. In response, he twists the knife, which causes the Nikto to not only release him but to also slump forward on him. He gasps for air, his chest heaving. The alien’s heavy body is practically lying on top of him when he feels him take his last breath.

“Traxell!” he hears someone say.

He tries to push the dead hostile off of him. Pounding boots approach, and when he looks up, he finds Deke and Kurs helping him remove the Nikto from him. He makes sure he grabs his knife as the corpse rolls next to him.

“You okay?” Kurs asks him, and he nods. “Sorry we didn’t get here sooner. We thought you had it covered.”

“Me, too,” he grunts before glancing at his knife. The blade is painted a dark, unpleasant green, so he wipes it on the Nikto’s tunic. While doing this, he feels a wetness clinging to his side. He does not need to look to know that the Nikto’s blood has spilled onto him. Inwardly groaning, he returns his knife back inside his right boot.

Kurs offers him a gloved hand, which he accepts. As the other Mando helps him to his feet, he notices that Lance and Deke are holding Cass prisoner at gun-point. Anger surges within the bounty hunter, and he darts past Kurs straight for the skinny man huddled on the ground.

Dressed in black from head to toe, Cass is drenched, either in sweat or from the rain. He is on his knees, his shoulders slumped and his body quivering. His short-cropped hair is sparkling with sweat, and the bounty hunter notices a set of bruises, purple and black, running across Cass’ neck. While his tanned skin is alarmingly pale, his wide eyes have a red tint to them that make him look crazy. He is a sniveling mess that the bounty hunter wants to dispose of, personally.

“Where is Lady Talia?” Lance demands. “Is she inside the Tomb?”

“This Tomb, this place,” Cass mumbles. His gaze darts up towards the spire. “It’s cursed,” he hisses, his Onderonian accent hoarse. “Nadd lives here. He _lives_ here! In the halls! Can you hear them? The voices!”

“Where. Is. Talia?” the bounty hunter growls. He grabs the front of Cass’ tunic and practically lifts him to his feet. Then, he shakes him so hard that the coward’s head bobs back and forth like a rattle.

“Traxell! Let him go,” Lance instructs, but he ignores him.

“Tell me!” he orders, throwing Cass to the paved ground like a sack of grain.

Cass catches himself with his hands, and they slam onto the stone with a loud slap. The pain must have been unbearable, but he does not cry out. Instead, he whimpers, “Talia? She’s his granddaughter you know—Nadd’s. She must have his sorcery. Yes, that’s why bad things have been happening.”

“Okay, he’s lost it,” Deke mutters under his breath. He wipes a sticky leaf off his cream-colored armor.

“She’s in there,” Cass reveals, scooting himself away from the Tomb’s doors. “She’s been playing a sick game of hide-and-seek with us. She keeps appearing out of nowhere. And then disappearing like a ghost. She’s been picking us off one by one.” He lunges himself at Lance and grabs his hand. “Save me, please! She’s hunting me! She made me tell her everything. She crawled into my brain. She cursed me! Help me, please!”

Lance yanks his hand free of Cass and steps away from him. The crazed man is on his knees, spinning his head around. His eyes are pleading with the Mandos to believe him.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he says to them each, his voice on the precipice of insanity. “I can see him—Nadd. He’s here,” he squeaks, pointing to their right. But nothing is there. “He’s lurking all around us.” Cass is shaking so hard that the bounty hunter is waiting for him to fall apart like pottery.

“He’s gone mad,” Kurs whispers to Lance, who nods. The bounty hunter silently agrees with them, yet to him, that alone is not enough to excuse the pathetic weakling and his actions.

“Cass,” the Captain firmly says. “No one’s here. I need you to _calm down_.”

Before the younger man can continue to reason with him, the bounty hunter yanks out his pistol, fuming. No one pays him attention as he aims for the madman’s heart. Cass was behind an attack to kill both him and Talia, just out of spite and revenge. And he was stupid and cowardly to drag the bounty hunter into his schemes. His gloved hand is steady as he focuses on his target, remembering how Cass had arranged for the baby to be taken back to the Guild and then to the Imps. If he had left the System and ran, there is nothing that could have stopped the bounty hunter from tracking him down, even if he had to go to the edges of the galaxy to find him.

And here is Cass, cowering, kneeling before him. As his finger curves around the trigger, he thinks of Vandar, innocent and gifted. His mind switches over to Talia, kind, brave, and loyal. They did _not_ deserve being stranded here.

He fires his pistol.

In an instant, Cass falls on his back, dead. Smoke from the blaster shot emanates from his chest and rises into the muggy air. As the bounty hunter holsters his weapon, his three companions snap towards him. Their helmets prevent him from reading their expressions, but from Lance’s clenched fist, he knows at least one of them is angry.

“What did you do?!” the young Captain seethes. While Kurs and Deke have the good sense to remain quiet, Lance says, “He was unarmed. We had him, Traxell! We should’ve taken him back to Onderon.”

“Then we’ll bring him in cold,” the bounty hunter flatly replies. “What, Lance? I put him out of his misery. _And_ did us a favor, too. Besides,” he adds, his voice laced with disgust, “he deserved it.”

With that, he turns around and jogs towards the Tomb’s entrance. He hears Lance order Kurs and Deke to follow the bounty hunter while he checks in with the others and receives an update on their progress.

The bounty hunter approaches the doors. They have fallen off their hinges years—probably centuries—ago, granting anyone and anything access. Rocks pepper the ground, and he watches his step as he enters the dark Tomb. He digs out a portable light from one of his belt pouches, fastens it to his helmet, and then retrieves his pistol. There is a dampness suffocating the air, and he detects rotten flesh and mold mingling together in a repulsive odor. A strong wind blows from the doorway, whispering throughout the cold stone halls. It almost sounds like voices hissing in a foreign language, which is what Cass must have been babbling about.

“T’is place gives meh t’e creeps,” he hears Deke say behind him.

They walk further into the large entry, their blasters pointed in front of them. Soon, they come across three passages. The idea of separating enters the bounty hunter’s mind, yet he is hesitant to suggest it. They do not know if there are more hostiles crawling around here, or if any of Dxun’s beasts have made their homes in the deserted Tomb. But he reconsiders, reminding himself that his two companions are not ordinary soldiers but highly trained and experienced Mandalorian warriors. Each of them can handle himself.

“Are we clearing them one at a time?” Kurs asks him.

“No, we’re splitting up,” he tells them. “We’ll cover more ground that way.”

“Okay,” Deke sighs. “This’ll be fun. Does anyone ’ave a creepy, dark tunnel they want ta explore?”

The bounty hunter surveys the three passages then paces in front of them. He stands at the far-left entrance before moving to the next one. His gut is uneasy about this ancient tomb as it is, but it prompts him to go down the hallway on his right. He takes a few steps closer towards the passage, just to make sure his instincts are not playing with him, yet something tells him that he may find Talia and Vandar at the end.

“This one’s mine,” he declares, pointing at the right hall with his pistol. “You guys decide which one you want.”

He does not wait for them to say anything and begins striding down the dark passage. Over the comms, he hears Kurs remind him and Deke to stay in contact.

 _“If someone’s in trouble,”_ he adds, _“we need to drop everything and help.”_

 _“Copy t’at,”_ Deke agrees, and the bounty hunter echoes the response.

As he intrudes upon the darkness and the stillness of the Tomb’s passage, he tries to figure out why his gut told him to take this path. Shining his light around him, he comes across animal bones, thick cobwebs, and scared rat-like creatures.

 _“Nothing so far,”_ Deke says over the comms to no one in particular. _“Except wall-to-wall spiderwebs. I really don’t want ta come across man-eating spiders right now. That’s an embarrassing way ta die.”_

 _“Cut the commentary,”_ Kurs replies. _“It’s not helping.”_

However, Deke’s remark registers in the bounty hunter’s mind. So far, _he_ has not come across “wall-to-wall” cobwebs. As he walks further along, he notices that only the sides of his passage are decorated with the sticky substance. It is almost as if something—or someone—has gone through the hallway recently.

Encouraged, he quickens his pace. He can taste a hint of fresh air, and as he turns a corner, he sees light at the end. When he reaches it, the passage opens up to a small room. The ceiling has caved in, allowing plants like thorny vines to grow here. Murky puddles are scattered across the floor, and he can hear water dripping from somewhere. There are cracks in the floors, which have been filled with tree roots and other plants. Above, he can see the overcast sky, and the sun barely streams through the clouds in a bright blue light.

As he surveys the room, he notices a flight of stairs leading to a lower level below the Tomb. And lying in front of it is a body. With his weapon pointed at the still form, he nears it. The body is that of a man—one of the Antars’ henchmen. The hostile had died on his stomach, and his neck is positioned in an odd angle.

“I think I’m onto something,” he shares with his fellow Mandos over the comms. “I got a body.”

 _“Dead end here,”_ Kurs replies. _“I’ll head over to you, Traxell.”_

 _“Same here,”_ Deke informs them.

Quietly, the bounty hunter walks around the corpse and descends the stairs. Statues are positioned on each side of him, and he sees cracked pillars holding up the ground floor of the Tomb. Broken pots and crumbling bricks litter the floor, as well as patches of dark green moss. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he notices that the room is shaped strangely, like an “L,” curving to his left. So, he explores that direction and comes across an arched entryway decorated with a broken gate. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a soft glow coming from beyond the iron entrance. He would have missed it if his gut was not urging him to keep on exploring this underground level.

The faded light, probably from a fire, lures him closer to the end of the room. He walks underneath the arched threshold and enters a long chamber stretching about fifty feet. The ceiling is not too high and is in a decaying state, which makes him figure that he is under the jungle by now. He believes the ceiling was once paved with stone; however, tree roots have managed to squeeze in between the cracks. They have grown across the inside of the roof and have spread their splintering fingers like black veins.

Torches are lit all throughout the room, casting eerie shadows that flicker with the flames, making the shadows look as if they are alive. The bounty hunter turns off his light. Though there is no wind to blow this far down, he almost believes he can hear whispers swirling in the dank air. He thinks of what Cass said, about the Tomb being cursed and Nadd living here. But he pushes these thoughts aside, refusing to entertain the idea of ghosts or spirits.

He sees more crumbling statues and even some kind of altar decorating the room, but his eyes and ears are drawn to movement at the far end. His finger curves around his pistol’s trigger, and his muscles tense, ready for action. The movement, he realizes, is from a dark figure hiding behind a fallen statue. As he gets closer, he stumbles across three Antar henchmen lying dead on the dirty ground. He had not seen them before because their bodies have been stashed away behind piles of rocks, as if on purpose. He is astonished that there are no blaster wounds, no blood, coming from the lifeless bodies.

Thinking that maybe the men are unconscious, he kneels next to one and checks for a pulse. His fingers register no signs of life; however, he is startled when he feels warmth still emanating from the body.

Anticipation surges throughout his bloodstream. Knowing that the Antar men were recently killed tells him that the figure at the end of the room must be Talia. He rises to his feet, holsters his weapon, and jogs towards her. His ears pick up Talia’s soft, reassuring voice, and he knows that the person she is talking to must be the baby. Something inside him warms at the thought.

As he gets closer to her, he detects sadness in her accent, which causes him to slow down his pace. Wanting this moment to be undisturbed, even from his fellow Mandos, he switches off his comms. He then makes sure he is quiet as he approaches so he can hear what Talia is saying.

“I’m so very sorry that you had to see me kill them,” he hears her whisper, her voice slightly echoing in the room. “But they didn’t give me much of a choice, little one. I can’t protect you from everything, so you might as well know that the galaxy is a dangerous place. And it’s filled with dangerous people.”

The bounty hunter finally sees all of his friend. She is kneeling and has Vandar cradled in her arms. The baby is holding her emerald pendant in his tiny hands as if that is somehow bringing him comfort. Beside them both are Vandar’s backpack and a blaster pistol. While the former looks muddy on the bottom and damp on top, the latter is shining with water droplets. If his closest companions are aware of his presence, neither of them shows it, for their brown eyes are solely fixated on each other.

“One day,” Talia continues, “you’ll have to take a life so you, or others, might live. I know it’s cruel and unfair and awful, but life can be like that,” she says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Always defend yourself. Don’t let your first impulse be to attack. And remember, youngling: walk a mile to avoid a fight, but when one starts despite your prevention, don’t back down an inch.” With a comforting smile, she bobs Vandar’s nose playfully with the tip of her finger, and the baby giggles.

Now standing in front of them, the bounty hunter waits for Talia to look at him. And she does. The first thing he notices about her is how wet her cheeks are. The tears have left a trail down her smudged face, and he hates seeing them.

Talia does not smile at him. She simply releases a sigh of relief as she takes him in. “ _Mar’e_ *,” she breathes out, closing her eyes for a moment—as if that will stop the waterworks because it does not. Once again, her cheeks are dripping with delicate tears.

 _(_ * _pronounced: MAH-ray; translation: “At last”)_

He is not sure what to do. He can count the times he has seen Talia cry or get emotional to the point of tears, and in every instance, he is both struck dumb and useless. Thankfully, the baby saves him by squealing in excitement when he sees his guardian. Releasing Talia’s necklace, Vandar wiggles his tiny body, and the woman puts him down. Once released, he waddles towards the bounty hunter and flings himself at his boots, hugging them the best he can with his short arms.

Tilting his head down to get a better look at his ward, the bounty hunter finds Vandar giggling up at him, his pointy teeth showing in his smile. The joyous welcome causes the bounty hunter to smirk.

“Hey, there, little womp-rat,” he teases the kid who beams at him with a sparkling gaze. The bounty hunter cannot stop his lips from forming a full smile. He sure has missed those big brown eyes and pointy ears. “Come here,” he says, kneeling in front of the baby.

Vandar raises his arms, and the bounty hunter scoops him up. The child tries to wrap his tiny arms around his neck and eventually settles for tugging at his guardian’s cloak instead. With a smirk, the bounty hunter pats Vandar’s back.

Glad that his charge is safe, he glances at Talia, who is now smiling at both of them. However, he sees that her smile is weak and does not stretch across her lips like it should. He notes that she is now holding onto her necklace’s pendant, her fist engulfing the emerald stone.

“I came as soon as I could,” he says, apologizing.

“Your timing is perfect,” she assures him.

Talia looks tired, really tired, as if she has not slept in four days instead of one. He does not see any bruises or scrapes on her face, just exhaustion chiseling its way across her expression. Her dark hair is in a wet braid, and loose strands are cascading around her cheeks and ears. His gaze scans over her teal tunic and trousers; both look damp and are decorated with patches of mud here and there. When his eyes travel down, he realizes that she is no longer wearing her faded red slippers but a pair of black boots. Somehow, she had acquired them, and he makes a mental note to ask her later on how she did that. He notices her raspberry-colored shawl has been torn because a strip of it is currently wrapped around her right upper-arm while the rest of it is hanging from her neck like a long scarf.

“You’re hurt, Talia,” he observes when he sees a dark blotch on the strip covering her arm.

Automatically, she drops her eyes to survey her injury. But after a moment, she looks up at him and explains, “It’s just a graze. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he cannot help but say. “What happened?”

Before she can answer, the shuffling of feet echoes into the chamber. He tears his attention away from his friend and stands. He soon finds Kurs and Deke entering the room, their blasters un-holstered but not pointed in front of them.

“We’ve been trying to contact you, Traxell,” Kurs informs him, his deep voice bouncing off the walls. “The Captain’s worried. Him and the others are setting up a perimeter and taking care of the rest of the men.”

“Tell him I found my kid and the Lady Talia,” he replies, feeling Vandar squirm in his arms so he can look at the newcomers. “And have Clae get herself over here. She’s supposed to be a medic right now, not a gunslinger.”

“On it!” Deke volunteers.

Meanwhile, Kurs approaches them. He swivels his head to take in the scene before him and offers a hand to Talia. After giving him a thankful smile, she accepts it. As she receives help in rising to her feet, the bounty hunter notes that her hand looks like a child’s compared to the other man’s. Kurs’ glove, leather brown and surprisingly clean, almost engulfs her delicate-looking fingers. But since the man is a quiet soul, the bounty hunter knows his grip is gentle.

“Clae’s on ’er way,” Deke shares, returning to them. “Including t’e Captain. Lady Talia,” he greets with a respectful bow. She nods at him like a dignified lady who belongs at Court and not in a rotting tomb.

“What happened?” he asks her, allowing concern to paint his gravelly voice. “Cass says you were picking them off one at a time.”

“You ran into him? I thought he would’ve been eaten by a Maalraa by now.”

“Traxell put him down like a mad Kath hound,” Deke relays to her.

At this, Talia looks his way with raised brows. He is not sure if she is surprised by the news or angry at it, so he claims, “He had it coming.”

Slowly, she nods. “Then you did what I could not,” she admits, once again fiddling with her green pendant.

The answer puzzles him. After all that Cass had done to her, she was unable to permanently silence him? He is not sure whether to admire her for her restraint or to criticize her for allowing Cass to slip through her fingers.

“He said you got inside his head,” he mentions. “And cursed him, like Nadd.”

With a shake of her head, she drops her necklace and answers, “It’s this tomb. Not me.” She glances around, and her dark eyes reflect the golden glow of the lit torches. In a whisper she says, “This ancient place will mess with you if you’re not prepared for it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, the bounty hunter sees Deke shudder. “Then let’s get out of here ’n’ bring them ta t’e Captain,” he suggests.

“Too late,” Kurs remarks. He then jerks his head behind him, his horned-helmet looking a little funny in this eerie room.

They turn around and see Clae and the Captain jogging towards them. Lance outruns the medic, and when he gets closer, he signals for Deke and Kurs to give him some space. As they nod to him, he whips off his blood-red helmet and clips it to his belt. When his brown eyes land on Talia, he releases a loud sigh of relief.

“Thank Mandalore!” he breathes out, to which she gives him a fond smile.

In two more strides, Lance reaches her and pulls her into a hug. The bounty hunter watches them with a half-smile. He then notices that she has wrapped both arms around her honorary nephew, which tells him that maybe her left arm really did just get a graze and does not bother her that much. Lance, he sees, envelops her thin waist with his arms, buries his face in her shoulder, and practically lifts her off the ground—an action that makes Vandar whine. The bounty hunter notices the little one frowning at the affectionate display, telling him that Vandar is jealous.

“Don’t suffocate ’er, Captain!” Clae scolds, joining them. If she was not a medic, she would not have been allowed to talk to him like that. Yet, since this _is_ Clae, the bounty hunter thinks she might have gotten away with it.

As Lance sets Talia back onto the stone floor, she asks him with an amused look, “It’s Captain now?”

The younger man grins at her sheepishly, which makes him look a like a sixteen-year-old. “Yeah,” he admits, his eyes dropping to the ground. “Just got promoted yesterday.”

The proud smile Talia gives him lights up her tired eyes. “Tell me about it,” she encourages, cupping Lance’s darkly-tanned cheek for a moment. She then settles atop the fallen statue she had been hiding behind so Clae can examine her.

“It’s a bit of a long story. You missed a lot, _ba’vodu_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: BAH-vod-oo; translation: “aunt” or “auntie”)_

“But first,” the bounty hunter interrupts as the medic pulls out her hand-held scanner. “I want to know what happened, Talia.”

“Save it, Trax,” Clae chides him, the curtness in her slanted accent muffled by her helmet. “I want my patient ta be in good spirits as I examine ’er. So, nay sad stories. Go ahead, Captain: tell ’er what’s been gunna on.”

“I think you should check the baby first, please,” Talia says. “He needs food and clean water. It was hard for me to get that.”

Clae responds by yanking out a small bag from her medical backpack. Once she has it, she blindly throws it at the bounty hunter. With a free hand he catches the bag, impressed with her aim.

“Do as t’e Lady wishes!” their medic orders him, keeping her attention on Talia for the time being.

Inwardly shaking his head, the bounty hunter complies. As he attends to Vandar’s needs, he listens to Lance sharing with Talia their side of what happened after she crashed on Dxun. It is a short yet thorough summary that includes the raid on the Antars and almost every major decision in between.

The bounty hunter watches closely as Clae attends to Talia’s injury on her arm. The wound looks sticky with thick blood, but it was a graze like his friend had said. In no time Clae has it cleaned, treated with Bacta, and wrapped up with a clean bandage. Afterwards, she hands Talia a canteen of fresh water and a rations bar. She then asks for the bounty hunter to give her Vandar so she can examine him next.

“Cass said he told you everything,” Lance mentions to Talia as she takes a long drink of water from the canteen.

Once she swallows it, she nods. “It didn’t take much persuading. If anything, the Tomb intimidated him more than I did.”

“He’s fine,” Clae announces. With one hand, she returns the child to his guardian while the other tosses her medical scanner back into her bag. Vandar is currently gnawing on a rations bar as if his life depended on it as she reveals, “He’s jus’ a little dehydrated. ’N’ starving by t’e looks of it.”

“And Talia?” Lance asks.

“’Er grazed arm will be completely healed by tomorrow. She’s also dehydrated with low sugar levels. But other than t’at, you’re fine, muh Lady.” If she was not wearing her helmet, the bounty hunter knows Clae is giving Talia a reassuring smile.

“Okay then,” the Captain says, standing to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

Their group withdraws from the Tomb. The bounty hunter has Vandar settled in his backpack and slings the baby-carrier over his shoulder so it can hang in front of him. While bringing up the rear with Kurs, he watches as Deke leads them through the rooms and halls at a fast pace. Undoubtedly, he is anxious to leave the ancient sepulcher as soon as possible. But Lance sets a slow retreat, thinking that Talia—whom he is fussing over—should not be rushed. In a Talia-like way, she insists that she is all right and quickens her strides, which makes the bounty hunter smirk behind his helmet.

Finally, they have reached the ground level of the Tomb and are walking down the paved aisle towards the jungle.

“You took out seven men, _ba’vodu_ *,” Lance comments as they pass by the three bodies outside the Tomb. “Slow day?”

 _(_ * _pronounced: BAH-vod-oo)_

Clae snorts at the teasing while Talia shakes her head in amusement. The bounty hunter sees his friend use her hand to reach for her side as if she expects pull out a weapon like a blaster or a sword. But since Lance had earlier offered to carry her commandeered pistol, she is currently weaponless. Talia must have realized this because she quickly drops her hand.

“It would’ve been better,” she replies, her accent laced with regret, “if they didn’t follow me here at all.”

A sprinkle of rain falls from the sky, making this eerie place look even more bleak and ominous. The bounty hunter can hear the humming of an engine and spots their transport ship flying towards them. Emerging from the jungle are the two rhyming-named Mandos, but he does not see their young black-armored comrade anywhere.

“Where’s Rami?” he asks.

“Who, Nader?” the Captain replies. “He said something caught his eye in the jungle. He’s going to check it out.”

“Rami Nader is here?” Talia wonders in surprise.

As Lance explains, the bounty hunter turns his comms back on and hails the missing Mando. “Rami: status?”

 _“I’m fine,”_ comes the reply. _“I thought I saw something. But it was nothing. Heading back to the rendezvous point now.”_

“Hurry up,” the bounty hunter says before ending communication. “He’s on his way, Lance.”

Their large transport gets closer, the roar of its engines growing louder. Everyone looks up at the overcast sky; the members of Alpha Team will have to use their jet-packs to fly up to it. As the bounty hunter also stares up at the transport, small raindrops pepper his visor and distort his vision. He wipes them away with a gloved hand and drops his gaze.

“Someone’s getting sleepy,” he hears Talia remark.

He glances down at Vandar who is trying to stay awake despite the noise. With a half-smile the bounty hunter cranes his neck to look at Talia. She has maneuvered her way to stand beside him—so she can be near the baby no doubt. Her eyes seem just as tired as Vandar’s, which has him wonder if she will fall asleep on the trip back to Onderon.

 _“Okay, Alpha Team,”_ he hears Lance say over the comms. _“Transport’s here. Let’s head up.”_

The Captain nods to Kurs who then walks over to Talia. The green-armored man has been assigned to carry her bridal-style and soar up to the ship. But before Kurs can follow through with this plan, Talia waves for him to halt.

“Did you hear that?” she shouts over the humming engines. Her shawl whips around her neck due to the ship’s thrusters.

“What, my Lady?”

“A cry!”

The two rhyming-named Mandos have already flown to the ship, and Lance marches over to Talia and Kurs. “What’s the hold up?”

“I heard something!” she answers, her gaze surveying the perimeter with a critical eye.

“There’s no way you can hear above the engines,” the bounty hunter argues even though he is overexaggerating. “It was probably nothing. Come on!”

“He’s right,” Lance tells her. “Let’s go!”

“There!” Talia says, pointing in the direction of the jungle, and the bounty hunter feels himself getting frustrated at her.

“T’at was a Maalraa, muh Lady,” Clae tells her loud enough so everyone can hear her. “We need to leave before t’is rain gets worse.”

Without warning, Talia darts away from them in a rush of teal and raspberry and runs towards the jungle faster than the bounty hunter thought possible in her exhausted condition.

“Talia!” Lance gasps. He is about to charge after her, but the bounty hunter tugs at his arm.

“I’ll get her,” he says through gritted teeth. He then takes off the baby-carrier and hands it over to Clae. “We won’t be long. Get the kid to the ship for me.”

Once the medic has the backpack in her grasp, the bounty hunter runs after Talia. His boots squish on the wet earth, and he can feel his cloak fluttering behind him. Over the comms he hears Lance order Clae to fly the baby up to the transport ship with Deke while he and Kurs follow the bounty hunter.

 _“Rami’s still out there,”_ Lance informs his Mandos. _“Maybe Talia really did hear something.”_

 _I doubt it,_ the bounty hunter inwardly grumbles as he enters the dank jungle.

“Talia!” he yells into the dense foliage. His voice is muffled by the plants and trees growing together in a tangled mess. “Where are you, Kex?” he calls out, thinking they do not have time for this.

The canopy above is so thick that only a few rain droplets have managed to reach the muddy ground. After he surveys his surroundings, he looks down and spies boot prints. Quickly, he follows them, breaking through bushes and vines. He hears twigs snapping behind him, and he assumes it must be Lance and Kurs following his messy trail.

A soft moan reaches his ears. Picking up the pace, he jogs in that direction. He jumps over a fallen tree, sidesteps a thorny-looking bush, and brushes past a thick curtain of leafy vines. He enters a small clearing and finds Talia on her knees leaning over something black.

Annoyed, he marches over to her and warns, “Don’t you _ever_ run off on me again, Tal—” He cuts himself short when he realizes that the something she is focused on is Rami.

As he rushes closer, he sees blood watering the grassy floor of the jungle. He kneels on the other side of the black-armored Mando, his gaze surveying his injuries. Rami’s right arm looks as if it has been mauled. His bicep is torn to ribbons, and bone peeks out from under the muscle. Blood pours from the wound as Talia rips her shawl and wraps it around the injured arm. Rami’s right hand automatically reaches for his thin vibrosword which is lying beside him. When the bounty hunter glances at the fallen weapon, he sees no signs of blood from whoever or whatever must have attacked the young man. At Rami’s insistence of grabbing his blade, an agonized moan emerges from beneath his helmet.

“Take that off of him,” Talia instructs the bounty hunter, pointing to the Beskar head-gear.

He obeys and is careful as he slides it off. After he clips the helmet to the kid’s belt, he watches as Talia uses the other half of her ruined shawl to press against Rami’s right side. He had not noticed before, but the area between his armor is also torn and bleeding profusely.

“What happened?” he asks as Rami releases another moan caused by Talia’s firm hands.

“Maalraa,” she says. Blood soaks through her shawl and oozes over her fingers like thick tears. “I got it to leave him alone, but that won’t last for long. Get Clae over here now!”

“Clae,” the bounty hunter says over the comms. “Rami’s been attacked by a Maalraa. Sending you my location now.” He presses a few buttons on his gauntlet and waits.

_“Copy t’at, Trax. Be t’ere in three minutes.”_

Rami is breathing heavily, and the bounty hunter sees sweat dripping down his forehead and making his black, ringlet hair damp and shiny. As Talia tries to attend to the young Mando’s wounds, he hears a crunching noise coming from his left. At first, he thinks it is Lance and Kurs who have finally caught up with him, but after a few moments, a deep growl penetrates the rustlings of the jungle.

“Talia,” he whispers. “I think the Maalraa’s back.”

“It can’t be, Ordo,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at the clamor. “They don’t make noises.”

 _“Traxell, where are you?”_ he hears Lance demand when suddenly three ugly creatures burst from the jungle, growling and snapping at them.

“Cannoks!” Talia shouts.

“I’m a little busy at the moment,” the bounty hunter barks at the Captain. Turning to his friend, he says, “I’ll take care of them. Look after the kid.” He then jumps to his feet and places himself between her and the three Cannoks.

For a couple of seconds, the dumpy-looking creatures simply study him, drool dripping from the edges of their frown-like mouths. Their heads reach an average-sized human's waist while their bodies are as long as a large dog. Each Cannok has dull, yellowish-green skin which is wrinkly and covered in bumps. Standing on four legs, their tridactyl feet dig their broad yet blunt claws into the muddy earth. The Cannoks’ bodies are round and flabby with thick, bony ridges traveling down their backs. Thin spines made of flesh protrude from the ridges from the beasts’ foreheads all the way down to their short, stubby tails.

The bounty hunter notes that a Cannok’s head has an upward-facing jaw that is connected low on its skull. Needle-like teeth, thin and sharp, jut out from the lower jaw which protrudes over a Cannok’s upper lip. Its eyes stand on short stalks from its head and, it seems to him, move independently of each another, giving it a funny look indeed. He is not sure if this is the ugliest beast that he has ever encountered or the stupidest looking.

Quickly, he unfastens his sniper rifle and points it at the disgusting creatures. The Cannoks snarl—and one actually barks like a dog—at his movement. He swings his weapon at them, hoping the gesture would frighten them away, but all it does is antagonize them further.

“Shoot the pests!” he hears Lance shout from somewhere.

So, he does. He fires at the closest Cannok to him, and the repulsive beast disintegrates into dust and fat. Behind him, two blue laser-shots whiz past him. One hits the second Cannok right between its uncoordinated eyes while the other burns its way down the beast’s open mouth. The Cannok slumps to the ground as Lance and Kurs join the bounty hunter.

Before any of them can eliminate the final creature, it hops backwards then left and right as if trying to dodge an on-coming spray of laser fire. The Cannok bumps into a thick hedge then freezes, its fleshy ridged back standing up straight. A heartbeat passes before a blur of red and teeth jumps out from the bushes and rips the Cannok into a bloody mess.

“A Maalraa,” he hears Lance gulp beside him, fear and dread painting his young voice.

The evil-looking feline snarls at them as it greedily digs its sharp claws into the lifeless Cannok. This Maalraa is bigger than the bounty hunter thought one of its species would be. Its long legs tower over its prey, and he figures its arched back reaches past his own waist. Thick scars decorate the Maalraa’s dark red skin, from its long neck to its muscled ribcage. He senses there is something malevolent about it, just like the eerie malice emanating from Nadd’s tomb. The Maalraa’s yellow, beady eyes glow as bright as lava as the animal glares at him and his companions.

Before the bounty hunter can think of what to do, Lance fires at the beast.

“No!” Kurs shouts. But it is too late. The blue laser bolts are expertly aimed at the creature’s face and neck, but they ricochet off its thick skin and disappear into the jungle. The action infuriates the Maalraa, and it springs towards Lance.

Instinctively, the bounty hunter intervenes, using his sniper rifle to push the animal and redirect its lunge. Off to their right, the Maalraa lands on its feet. Its jaw, featuring huge fangs protruding from its round head, snaps at them. As the Maalraa crouches its body closer to the ground, its whip-like tail lashes from behind it, swatting at the jungle’s bushes.

While it begins to slowly pace in front of them, Kurs rebukes the Captain. “That was stupid, sir. You know better than that. Their skin’s practically as thick as our Beskar.”

“Sorry. It’s just . . . I’ve never gone toe-to-toe with one before.”

“Talia’s a beast tamer,” the bounty hunter blurts out, remembering that talent on her file. “Can’t she get rid of it?”

At this, the Maalraa charges straight for him as if defying his idea. He has half a second to raise his rifle and fire; however, the beast dodges the shot. His ammo explodes into a nearby tree while Kurs tackles the Maalraa to the jungle floor. A vibro-knife is in his hand, but the vicious animal manages to free itself of the Mando’s hold.

A tense standstill engulfs them, giving the bounty hunter a moment to recruit Talia so she can get rid of the beast. Unfortunately, when he glances over his shoulder, he finds her lying on top of Rami, her body as still as the grave.

“Lance!” he hisses. “Check on Talia. Kurs and I will handle the Maalraa.”

The red creature snarls as the young Captain backs away from the standstill. It prompts the Maalraa to attack—this time aiming for the bounty hunter. He does not have a moment to shoot at it again, but he is able to keep it at bay with his rifle. As the Maalraa’s front claws are barred by the weapon, the weight of its body slams both it and the bounty hunter onto the ground. Its long neck cranes over him, its enormous fangs grinning at him against its thick lips. He tries to wiggle himself free, but his rifle, weighed down by the Maalraa’s paws, is tightly pressed into his own neck, trapping him.

Before the animal is able to tear his throat out, Kurs slams his large frame into it. As if in slow motion, the bounty hunter watches as his fellow Mando plunges his knife into the Maalraa’s underbelly. Both man and beast tumble off of him in a tangle of red and green, and he notices the blade penetrate the Maalraa’s stomach an inch or two. The creature screams at the attack and claws at Kurs’ breastplate so it can get away.

The bounty hunter rises to his feet just as a spray of firepower cascades on the demonic animal. Looking up, he sees Clae and Deke descending from the jungle’s canopy, their jet-packs on maximum burn. Of course, the blaster shots are unable to penetrate the Maalraa’s ridiculously thick skin, but the beast ends up fleeing the area with its tail between its muscled legs. It must know that the odds are against it.

“That was longer than three minutes,” he grunts at Clae, his muscles feeling shaky from the intense encounter. He slings his sniper rifle behind his back.

The woman shrugs her shoulders and holsters her blaster. “Well, at least I’m here, okay?”

Deke walks over to them, his weapon pointed at the area where the Maalraa disappeared to. “Brutal things, aren’t they?” he comments with a shudder.

Not wanting to dwell on the fearsome beast, the bounty hunter joins Clae as she rushes over to Lance. Beside him is an unconscious, sweating Rami, and in Lance’s lap, he is cradling Talia’s head. Covered in Rami’s blood, she is also unconscious, a status that surprises the bounty hunter.

“What happened to her?” he demands, kneeling next to her.

“I don’t know,” Lance answers while Clae attends to Rami, her hands moving like lightning. “I found her passed out on Nader. Her pulse is steady, but she won’t wake up.”

“I need ta get t’e kid ta Onderon,” Clae announces. “’Is arm’s in bad shape, ’n’ he’s lost a lot of blood. Good thing ’is side isn’t as awful as it looks.”

The last piece of news strikes the bounty hunter as odd. He thought the abdominal injury was just as bad as Rami’s arm, if not worse. The young Mando had been losing so much blood that it is currently staining the mud and grass, watering the ground with his life-source. But the bounty hunter does not have enough time to think more about Rami’s condition because Clae orders Kurs and Deke to carry Rami. They are to fly him up to the ship while she hovers beside them to supervise her patient.

As they follow her orders, she does a quick scan on Talia. “She’s stable,” the medic says, confusion in her voice. “’Er exhaustion must’ve gotten t’e best of ’er. But I’ll order ta ’ave some tests run on ’er.”

Lance carefully lays Talia’s head onto the ground and readies himself to take her to the transport which is hovering above them. But as he does so, the bounty hunter stops him by placing a hand on his arm.

“I got her,” he says, his voice telling the eighteen-year-old not to argue with him. Carefully, he slips one arm under her legs while the other steadies her back.

Without breaking a sweat, he stands up with Talia in his arms. She curls into his chest, and he makes sure her head is leaning against his shoulder. As he activates his jet-pack and rises into the air, he cannot help but notice just how slim Talia is. Although she has always been petite and slender, she is lighter than when he picked her up back on Cholganna—something he has not realized until now. Has her visit to this cursed moon stressed her so much that it sucked the life out of her, leaving her a bag of bones?

He soars above the jungle’s canopy and finally reaches the transport ship. After steering himself and his friend inside, he deactivates his jet-pack. His fellow Mandos give him room, but he carries Talia to a corner, knowing Rami’s entourage will need more space and attention than his friend. One of the rhyming-named Mandos moves closer to him, holding a sleeping Vandar who is safely tucked away in his baby-carrier.

Once Clae arrives with her patient, the doors to the ship close shut. The pilot flies them to the West, and Clae retrieves a stretcher from a compartment above the built-in benches. Still holding onto Talia, the bounty hunter watches as Rami is settled on the hovering stretcher. His fellow Mandos all sit down while their medic straps her patient to the make-shift bed and takes a better look at his wounds.

Over the intercom, their pilot announces, _“We’ll be arriving in Iziz in about thirty-five minutes.”_

“Captain,” Clae says, removing her helmet and clipping it to her belt. “I need ye ta ’ave t’e pilot contact t’e Temple ’n’ tell them we need a medical team waiting for us.”

With a nod, Lance slips into the cockpit. The bounty hunter feels Talia shift in his arms, and he thinks he should lay her down somewhere. Looking around, he finds an empty space on one of the benches and places her there on her side. Quickly, he removes his sniper rifle and jet-pack, stashing both items under the bench and out of his way. As he sits down beside his unconscious friend, he moves her upper body so she can lean on him. He makes sure his arm supports her because their trip back to Onderon will be bumpy, and he does not want her falling to the metal floor.

A few minutes pass in humming silence. Some Mandos murmur to one another, nodding at Rami’s bloody condition. Lance returns from the cockpit, helmetless, and automatically slides himself on the other side of Talia. The bounty hunter notices the young Captain placing a gloved hand under her curled legs, also keeping her safe and secured. His blood-red armor has a layer of mud from her boots, but Lance does not seem to mind. If anything, he scoots closer to Talia, pressing her feet against his thigh-guard.

Beside the bounty hunter is Deke who has been passed a sleeping Vandar. The cream-armored Mando has also removed his helmet and is staring at the baby, obviously fascinated with his green skin and pointy ears. He keeps squinting his almond-shaped eyes at Vandar, and a crooked smile appears on his lips.

“How’s the kid?” Kurs asks Clae. They all turn to their injured brother, and the bounty hunter sees that Rami’s lightly tanned face is flushed pink and shines from a fever.

“I’m afraid an infection will set in,” the medic answers, wiping her patient’s brow. “A Maalraa’s mouth is one of t’e filthiest.”

The bounty hunter tilts his head down. To everyone else, it looks as if he is watching Clae dress Rami’s wounds, but he is really taking this moment to study Talia as she sleeps. Seeing her lying beside him, unconscious, reminds him of the time when she was aboard his ship, healing from her Nexu injury. Back then, she had saved his life, and he likes to think that he returned the favor—at least, just a little bit.

“How’s our Lady doing, Trax?” he hears Clae inquire. When he glances at her, he sees that she is still focused on Rami, wrapping more strips of clean bandages around his mauled arm.

“Still out cold,” he replies.

“Does anyone know what happened to her?” Lance wonders aloud. “Did you see, Traxell? Kurs?”

“No, sir,” the green-armored man says. He is sitting on the other side of the ship. “I was too focused on the Maalraa.”

“Same here,” the bounty hunter admits, feeling the transport shutter. “I think she’s just tired.”

“I’ll be ordering a Bacta tank for t’e kid here,” Clae interjects. “’N’ maybe one for ’er Ladyship, too.”

The idea makes the bounty hunter cock an eyebrow at the medic. “Is that necessary?” he asks, his tone sounding a little protective. He can feel Lance’s eyes on him, and when Clae glances at him in surprise, he clears his throat and says, “Talia must’ve fainted. Isn’t putting her in a Bacta tank an extreme remedy?”

Clae holds his gaze for a moment before shrugging her shoulders. “I scanned ’er. Everything seems ta be normal,” she tells him as she returns her attention back to Rami. “Except, ’er blood pressure is a little too low for muh comfort. But t’at’s fixable. Along with ’er dehydration.”

“I’ve known her to have fainting spells,” Lance volunteers. There is hope in his voice, as if this information will help explain things.

“Well, I don’t,” the bounty hunter mutters under his breath.

“Really?” Clae asks, though he is not sure whom she is talking to.

The Captain must think the question is for him because he reveals, “My father says it’s happened to Talia a lot. You know, whenever she’s stressed or in some kind of scuffle.”

Their medic hums at this. She tucks her short brown hair behind her left ear, saying, “’Er Ladyship seems too tough ta be t’e fainting type. But looking at ’er now,” she reconsiders aloud, nodding at the woman in question, “fainting doesn’t seem too far-fetched.”

Hearing this prompts the bounty hunter to drop his eyes to Talia. At the moment, she looks delicate, all thin and small. While her damp clothes appear to be too baggy for her, her skin does seem to be a shade lighter than her normally, nicely tanned skin. Yet, that may be due to lack of nutrients and protein.

Her head has now settled on his left side, and her face is buried in his dark gray tunic. He can feel her hot breaths penetrating his clothes, mingling with his own body heat. Either Talia or the moving ship inches her body closer to his, which allows her cheek to press up against the edge of his chest-plate. Not wanting her face to become marked, the bounty hunter shifts himself at an angle and positions Talia a little so she can rest on his vulnerable side, away from his armor.

How is it that he keeps running into people who seem to need his help? Not that he minds right now. It is just that he never expected to be this kind of magnet, attracting others in defenseless situations. First, the baby needed his help on Arvala-7 and Nevarro then Talia back on Cholganna after the Nexu attack. And now, both of them. He inwardly shakes his head and releases a quiet sigh. Fate sure has kept the three of them on their toes these past couple of months.

At the moment, he is thankful for Talia, truly. She protected the baby and gave her all. It even seems she passed out from exhaustion because of her dedication to keep Vandar safe. He owed her a life-dept, which has been paid one-third so far. Though he “saved” her from Dxun, he did not do it alone, and by the looks of it, she managed to keep her enemies at bay without his help.

The realization makes him think. He cannot deny that he owes Talia for taking up the role of Vandar’s guardian. So, as he tries to weigh out what they have both done the past twenty-four hours, he figures that perhaps he and Talia are back to where they started on Cholganna. The longer he considers it, the more he believes that his debt may have fully returned and that he still owes her.

But for some reason, he is not angry about his conclusion, not this time. Talia has proved herself valuable and loyal to the kid. And to him. It is her loyalty that reminds him of something his buir had once said to him. His brain scrambles for her words for several seconds until he remembers.

_“Loyalty is a rare thing. If, or when, you find it, keep it.”_

Deciding he will do just that, he drops his gaze back onto Talia. When she wakes up, she will finally have an answer to her two-week old request. She has been waiting long enough for him to make up his mind, and he hopes she is a quick packer because he thinks it is time for them to leave Onderon.

_All three of us._

* * *

The Tomb of Freedon Nadd from "Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords"

(from the game; an idea of what its general structure looks like)

Green Nikto (like the last bounty hunter from Black Flame):

Cannok (left) & Maalraa (right):


	15. The Calling of Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For MiJo71. I hope you enjoy an early B-day present from me. :)

Chapter XV: The Calling of Stars

_Location: Iziz, Onderon_

Late evening has fallen, and the Mandalorian bounty hunter is walking up and down the corridors of the Unifar Temple. The royal palace is quiet save for a few guards shuffling their feet while being stationed at key entrances and exits.

A few hours ago, he and his fellow Mandos had arrived in the city and were greeted by a large medical team. Four flocked to Rami and Clae while three, with a stretcher, made a bee-line for an unconscious Talia. At the time, he had been carrying her bridal-style, and a part of him tensed at the idea of letting her out of his sight. But the feeling passed when reason told him that his friend would be in better hands than his own. So, he surrendered her—quite reluctantly—into the doctors’ and other medical personnel’s care.

With the child in his arms, the bounty hunter ended up trailing behind the med-team. They raced their patients to an area in the Temple specifically designed to attend to the royal families’ medical needs. He noticed they passed by Viceroy Ryk’ken, Lord Kavan, a few Onderonian officials, and even Minister Nader. The final man had grown pale when he saw his son, Rami, on a stretcher, bleeding and rendered unconscious. It seemed that no one informed the palace exactly _who_ had been injured, just that two Mandos from Alpha Team needed medical assistance the moment their transport landed in the capital.

In the next hour Talia was given a private room decked with the latest health equipment and luxuries. His Mando comrades had disappeared on him, their work done; however, the bounty hunter lingered in the general area where his friend was being examined. Lance stayed with him for a little while until he had to go write up a report on what happened on Dxun.

So, the bounty hunter stood outside the door to Talia’s room with a sleeping Vandar, waiting to hear of any news of her condition. Clae told him that tests were run on his friend, but since he was not family, he was not permitted to know the results. At first, he was disappointed, and he simply nodded. Clae quirked an eyebrow at his silence and assured him that Talia was fine.

Shortly afterwards, he was allowed to see her. A cradle had been provided in all the hustle and bustle, allowing him to remove Vandar from his baby-carrier and place him in it. He positioned the hovering cradle beside Talia’s large bed then sat down on a chair in the corner of the room. Like on Cholganna, he wanted to be nearby when she woke up. To his amusement, the green baby started snoring, and rather loudly, too. In fact, it was louder than the bounty hunter had ever heard Vandar do before, which told him that the baby did not get much sleep on Dxun.

Time passed quietly in Talia’s room until about forty-five minutes ago when Clae kicked him out. The medic had traded her dark gray armor with lavender highlights for a pair of deep-green medical trousers and tunic. Her grip on his bicep was firm as she practically bullied him from his chair to the door. When he asked her why he had to leave, she wrinkled her button-nose at him and hissed, _“Every girl needs her privacy, Trax.”_ The door then slid shut right in front of him.

And he is _still_ waiting for Clae to let him return to his friend’s quarters. At the moment, he is continuing to pace down the intricate hallways of the palace’s second floor. He notices that a room about three doors away from Talia’s has had its door half-open all this time. So far, he has ignored it during every round he has been making while he kills time, yet he finds himself curious enough—and mostly bored—to see if there is anyone inside.

When he peeks into the dark room, he discovers that it is one designed for observation purposes. The wall separating it from its neighbor is made up of a long window with the ability to transition from a one-way mirror to a two-way. His boots are planted to the floor when he sees that, in the dimly lit room beyond, is Rami.

The unconscious eighteen-year-old is floating in a blue Bacta tank, stripped of everything except a pair of white briefs and a breathing mask. The thick liquid suspends him in his life-saving container, and he almost appears to be completely still as large bubbles float to the top. His black, ringlet hair is slick with Bacta, and the bounty hunter surveys a few scars adorning his skin. They are thin, probably from vibrodaggers or swords—which, he figures, are Rami’s preferred weapons. He cannot tell if the kid looks peaceful or not in his healing-induced slumber since a breathing mask is covering up most of his face.

There are other tubes connected to him, keeping him alive and somewhat comfortable inside the cylinder tank. The bounty hunter had heard something the past few hours about Rami undergoing successful surgeries on both his right arm and side. His wounds were not infected like Clae feared, and Rami had received the most expensive Synthflesh to be applied to his injuries that credits could buy—compliments of his father.

 _If only the kid knew how much Nader’s fussed over him,_ he thinks to himself.

His gaze roams across the bandages wrapped around Rami’s arm and abdomen; they are there to keep the applied Synthflesh secure whilst soaking up the Bacta in the tank. He knows Rami will have to undergo a lot of healing and therapy in the upcoming weeks, possibly months. Though the bounty hunter feels sorry for the kid, he admires him for doing his job and pursuing any threats during their mission despite the fact that Rami’s instincts led him deeper into Maalraa territory. He figures that all of the members of Alpha Team now have quite a story to add to their already experienced resumés.

A figure emerges from the corner of the observation room and stands in front of the window. He instantly recognizes the silhouette belonging to the Minister of Trade. The shadows cling to Nader’s profile, but the bounty hunter is able to see a pained expression stamped on him as he stares at Rami, the son who strongly resembles his second wife. With an erect posture, Nader clasps his hands behind his back and releases a deep sigh.

The bounty hunter is about to sneak away so as not to intrude when the Solarian Lord glances over his shoulder and spies him at the doorway. Much to his surprise, Nader jerks his head, silently inviting him to enter the room. And since there is nothing else for him to do at the moment, he decides to spare the other man a few minutes. With soundless steps, he walks inside the dark room, but he still hovers by the door.

“How is Lady Talia?” the Minister asks, his tone formal.

“Resting.”

Silence hums between them, but the bounty hunter prefers it than that eerie silence radiating from Nadd’s Tomb.

“How is he?” he inquires.

“Healing,” Nader replies. He clears his throat. “The doctors are hopeful. Rami’s young and strong. He’ll pull through this.”

He nods, though he is not sure if the small acknowledgement is even noticed.

“I can’t bear the thought of losing him,” Nader says. From the strain in his Onderonian accent, the Mandalorian would not be surprised if the other man’s eyes are fighting back tears. “Nor any of my children for that matter.”

“Looks like Rami was the rebel in your family,” he remarks, remembering that the young man’s decision to become a member of his Creed had created tension with his father.

Nader almost chuckles at this. “I used to blame that on his mother. I thought she pushed him to become a Mando just to spite me.”

“And now?” He can see the older man soften as his eyes linger on Rami.

“Now,” the Minister sighs, “I’ve known it to be _his_ choice. A part of me still doesn’t like it. But . . . I guess that’s my pride talking. And fear. I don’t like the idea of him being in so much danger.”

“That’s life,” the bounty hunter comments dryly. “And the life of a Mando.”

Nodding, Nader admits, “And life’s been good to me. To my family. So, I hoped it would treat him well, too. But after how awful I was to his mother . . .” He drops his eyes from his son. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Destiny decides to one day take him away from me. As a punishment, despite my good fortune.”

The Mandalorian watches the other man out of the corner of his eye. Just like Talia and he had witnessed weeks ago, old age seems to have definitely softened him. Well, enough for Nader to expose his thoughts about his family to a complete stranger. But then, from his experience, people confide in strangers because their chances of ever meeting them again are slim.

“Thank you,” the Minister quietly says. “For helping him. I haven’t had a chance to convey my appreciation.”

“That was mostly Clae,” he corrects since he was one of many who got Rami back to Iziz. “And Lady Talia. She’s actually the one who figured out your son was in trouble.”

“Yes, I must thank her when she recovers.”

The bounty hunter sends Nader a final nod, excusing himself so he can make his way to his friend’s room. But he ends up lingering at the door and finds himself adding, “Don’t see this as a punishment, Minister. Rami’s alive. He’s strong, honorable, brave. And a darn good Mando. You should be proud of him. Think of this as a chance to clear the air.”

Before the Solarian Lord can respond, the Mandalorian slips out of the room. The last thing he wants is to get even more entangled in another family drama, but he had to say his piece, for Rami. So, with quick steps, he makes his way back to his companions, hoping he can enter Talia’s room again.

Unfortunately, he finds Clae blocking the door. She is leaning against the frame, her arms crossed in front of her. The deep-green tunic and trousers she is wearing softens her severe haircut, but there is a glint in her hazel eyes as they roam across his silver armor like flames consuming a dry forest.

“What’ve _ye_ been up ta, Mando?” she asks, her slanted accent laced with flirtation.

“Can I go in?” he replies instead.

Jerking her head to the room behind her, Clae says, “Give them a minute.”

“Them?” he echoes, tilting his head at her.

The medic surveys him critically before asking, “Ye do know ye can take yer helmet off, right? I mean, there’s nay danger. Ye can relax now.”

“Who’s ‘them’?” he repeats, even though he has a sneaky suspicion that Clae had not been referring to just Talia and the baby.

“’Ave ye ever taken t’at off?” she asks again, clearly ignoring him.

From the way she is slouching against the doorframe, he knows she can keep this up until she gets what she wants. On any other day, he may have found this trait amusing, but not now. Not after the two, very long days he has gone through.

Realizing that the feisty woman will only cooperate if he does, he begrudgingly answers, “I don’t take it off.”

“Take what off?” Clae throws at him with an innocent smile that looks anything but that.

“My helmet,” he flatly replies.

“Why?”

“Who’s ‘ _them_ ’?” he prompts. When Clae sends him a knowing look, he forces himself not to snap at her for this game. “It’s a sacred custom in my Tribe,” he explains.

The medic slowly nods her head at him, soaking in the revelation. He waits and is rewarded with an answer when she confirms his suspicions by saying, “T’e ‘them’ be ’er Ladyship ’n’ t’e Viceroy.”

“Talia’s awake?”

“Yep,” Clae reveals, her lips popping the _p_. “I woke ’er up after I shooed ye out, Mando.”

“So, what’s Ryk’ken doing in there?” he asks, forcing himself not to sound demanding. At Clae’s quirked eyebrow, he quickly adds, “My kid’s in the room, too, you know. Why would Ryk’ken want to be in there?”

“Nay idea. For all I know, he’s asking ’er ta marry him!” she snickers, to which he rolls his eyes at. The dim hallway lights almost make her freckles disappear. “T’e Viceroy wanted a moment with Lady Talia, ’n’ I wasn’t gunna disobey him, was I?”

“How long has he been in there?”

Clae shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. Not quite ten minutes.”

As if on cue, the door slides open, forcing the medic to step out of the way. Ryk’ken marches from the room, his usual grim expression firmly settled on his dark face. He is no longer wearing his Mandalorian armor, but that does not surprise the bounty hunter since it is approaching nine in the evening. Instead, the Viceroy has donned a charcoal, Onderonian-styled tunic that reaches the knees, has long sleeves, and is designed with slits at the sides of the legs. Below, he has on a pair of matching trousers and black boots.

After Talia’s door closes behind Ryk’ken, the bounty hunter watches as the other man snaps his head in Clae’s direction. The medic stands at attention, a sliver of fear flashing across her face as she takes in the Viceroy’s stony expression. Like him, she must have sensed the tension radiating off of Ryk’ken. A curt nod and a hard look are both sent her way by the Viceroy, and Clae understands the hints perfectly. She returns the nod before making herself scarce.

Once she is out of earshot, Ryk’ken fixes his pale green eyes on the bounty hunter. Yet, unlike the medic, he does not flinch at the intimidating stare. If anything, he frowns right back at the Viceroy, “forgetting” about the small truce they had made earlier that day. As they hold one another’s gazes, he cannot deduce if Ryk’ken’s grim face is about to be overtaken by sorrow, hurt, or anger.

In a harsh whisper, Ryk’ken says to him, “If she follows you, _beroya_ *, you better not get her killed—you or your kid. Or by Mandalore and Dxun,” he growls, “I swear I’ll hunt you down and end you myself.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: bair-OY-ah; translation: bounty hunter)_

With that, he brushes past him, storming down the hall. The bounty hunter blinks at the Viceroy’s retreating form. He assumes that the best friends must have argued and that Ryk’ken probably found out she wanted to leave Onderon with the bounty hunter. From his reaction and threat, he more than likely was unable to convince Talia to stay and see his side of things.

“ _Utreekov_ *,” he mutters before returning to his friend’s dimly lit room.

 _(_ * _pronounced: oo-TREE-kov; translation: “fool, idiot”, literally meaning “emptyhead”)_

He is not sure what he will discover inside, perhaps Talia crying or fuming about her conversation with one of her oldest friends. So, he is surprised to find her sitting at the edge of her bed dressed in the white tunic assigned to patients, humming quietly as if nothing happened. Her legs are dangling from the bed while her feet hover about a foot off the cold floor. Since she is not facing the door, he notices that her dark brown hair is damp; it flows down her back, all loose and long. Clae must have helped her clean up or had at least been nearby as Talia washed away the grime and sweat from Dxun. A white bandage around her left arm is peeking from underneath her tunic.

As he walks further into the room, he sees that she has a hand lying atop of Vander who is still sleeping in his cradle. Her slim fingers gently run across his tiny stomach. The tune she is humming is peaceful, almost meditative, but she stops when the bounty hunter enters her line of sight. She looks up at him. There are dark circles under her eyes, but their presence does not diminish the soft smile she sends his way.

“I was wondering where you were,” she quietly greets him. Her elegant accent sounds like a calming wind.

“Clae kicked me out.”

“I know. I would’ve loved to have seen her boss you around,” she teases, her smile growing mischievous. “I think she’s taken quite a shine to you, Ordo.”

Both the teasing and its implication make him smirk behind his helmet. Even though he had been separated from her and the baby for twenty-four hours, it feels much longer since their last playful banter.

“You don’t say,” he remarks. Crossing his arms, he asks in an amused tone, “Jealous, Kex?”

She chuckles at this, her dark eyes sparkling. “Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

After a couple of seconds of mutual enjoyment, she returns her gaze to the gifted child. He also surveys Vandar, glad that he is safe and not in enemy hands.

“How is he?” he asks.

“Exhausted. But happy,” she replies, removing her hand away from the baby.

“What happened with Ryk’ken?”

He notices that her fond expression wavers just a little before she answers, “He told me what happened. His part in everything, I mean. Cass already told me, but it was good hearing it from Dacob. He apologized.”

“And you didn’t forgive him,” the bounty hunter states rather than asks.

“No, I did,” she reveals, turning her attention back to him. “A blind-spot shouldn’t be held against him.”

Feeling a little confused, he wonders, “Then why’d he look so . . . angry?”

“Jealousy doesn’t disappear overnight,” she says. “Especially his.”

“He thinks you’re leaving Onderon. And gave me a warning in case you did.”

Talia slowly nods her head. “Well, I do plan to leave. That’s no secret to him. But leaving alone? I still don’t know yet.” Her eyes are hopeful as she studies his helmet, but she does not send him a knowing look. Instead, her gaze becomes distant as she quietly admits, “I feel the stars are calling me away from here.”

“I get that,” he replies. There is something about traveling, the freedom and the anticipation, that lures him from one bounty to the next. He has been able to satisfy this feeling most of his life, but his poor friend has usually been trapped on her homeworld while that same desire stirs within her, making her restless.

 _But not for long,_ a whisper reminds him.

He opens his mouth to tell her that he decided to let her come along with him and the baby, but for some reason, the offer dies on his lips. He tries again, his brain scrambling for the right words, and the result is the same. His last proposal, the one he had given to Kuiil, was slightly easier to voice—slightly. Why is this more difficult to say to Talia, a fellow Mando?

Clearing his throat, he decides to just blurt it out the best he can. “You know, the little womp-rat will never forgive me for tearing him away from you, Kex. Especially after what happened today.” When her hopeful gaze fuses with his, he draws from it a peaceful courage and says, “So . . . it looks like you’re going to be coming with us.”

A smile slowly spreads across her pink lips as she asks, “When?”

“When you’re ready. And rested. Both of you,” he adds, nodding at Vandar.

“And where are we going?”

He shrugs before uncrossing his arms. “Not sure yet. Wherever the stars lead us? Maybe back to the Outer Rim. The kid can’t stay here anymore.”

At this, Talia’s brightened expression fades. “I’m so sorry, _ner burc’ya_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; definition: “my friend”)_

Taken aback, he asks, “For what?”

“For bringing you here. I kept saying how safe Onderon is,” she explains, “but it wasn’t safe enough. My political ties put him in danger. And you, too. It’s my fault what happened.”

In the middle of her speech, he is already shaking his head at her. “No, it isn’t. The person responsible is Cass. Me and the kid just got caught in the crosshairs.”

“Because of me,” she insists, her voice rising a notch in volume. “Because _I_ begged you to come here.”

“This wasn’t your fault, Talia,” he states in his no-nonsense bounty hunter tone. “I’m not accepting your apology. And you shouldn’t be asking for forgiveness. What matters is that he’s safe—all thanks to you.” He crosses his arms again, to reinforce his beliefs, but his friend still does not appear to be convinced. Knowing that she will probably be stubborn about this, he decides to redirect her train of thought by admitting, “And it looks like I owe you. Again.”

She squints her eyes at him, confused. “But you came to get us off Dxun. I’d say your life-dept is done.”

“I got help,” he reminds her. “That really doesn’t count.”

“So . . . we’re not even then?”

“No,” he admits, dropping his arms to his sides. “I owe you at least half of my original dept. And since trouble keeps following us around, I bet I’ll be coming to your rescue again.”

“Well, I won’t hold my breath,” she murmurs, and he feels the same. “You know, I wasn’t expecting to go back to Dxun like the way I did. But at least I got to see it before I left.”

“Sounded like it was a terrible vacation.”

This time, she is the one who shrugs. “I learned a few things. And so did he.” Turning her gaze back to Vandar, she whispers, “He was amazing, Ordo. Remember on Cholganna, when he tried to tame the Nexu with his gift? He did that with a Boma. And it worked.”

The revelation both startles and intrigues him. He has read that a Boma is another predator on both Dxun and Onderon. It is a green-skinned reptile, traditionally small in stature but vicious in temperament. Thick scales cover its entire body, including its long tail, and its squat face features two horns atop its head and two tusks protruding from its ravenous jaw. Lance mentioned that some of their Mandalorian ancestors, and even a rare handful today, had been able to tame the larger Bomas for combat and riding purposes, but it was a dangerous task. Most had given up.

Hearing that the child used his gift to influence a wild Boma, like he had almost done to the Cholgannese Nexu, fascinates the bounty hunter. His shoulders straighten as he asks Talia, “How’d he do it?”

For a few moments, she is quiet. She runs her teeth over her bottom lip before saying, “His gift can be a mystery . . . even to me sometimes. The Boma was a young female. She was impressionable, I think. But I’m sure she sensed that Vandar meant her no harm. She let him touch her.” Talia chuckles. “She even followed us around for a while until I told Vandar to stop influencing her.”

Thinking that this is the best time for him to finally find out how his friend had managed to survive on the Demon Moon with a child in tow, he asks, “What happened there, on Dxun? In the Tomb?”

Talia sends him a small, humble smile. “There’s really not much to tell. We crashed, and I found out where we were. So,” she sighs, the circles under her eyes looking darker, “I got us off the ship—after I stole a pair of boots from a ‘helpful’ crew member. Then, I headed for the Tomb. But the youngling and I were being followed, by the Antars’ men and a pack of Maalraas. I was able to take out some men along the way, and we waited in the Tomb for help.” She pauses from her report-like summary and sends him a fond smile. “I knew you’d come once the storm cleared.”

“How’d you make it through the jungle?” he questions. “In the rain?”

“I’m an Onderonian, too. And not just a Mando, you know,” she boasts. “Jungle living and survival are in my blood.”

“And the Tomb?” he presses, angling his head at her to convey that he will not allow her to side-step this question. “I’ve heard it’s haunted, by _your_ ancestor.”

Instead of remembering that place with fear or hatred or turning her gaze away from his, Talia keeps looking at him purposefully. She dons a neutral face, which he thinks is her way of trying to convince him that the Tomb did not scare her like it did with Cass and his fellow Mandos.

“I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was . . . sinister. But Nadd’s spirit was laid to rest three millennia ago,” she firmly says. “I’m just glad the youngling and I were only there for several hours rather than several days.”

He nods. Her answers were straight to the point and short, but his gut tells him that she is not being as thorough as she should be. He is about to pressure her to share more until she hides a yawn behind her hand. He is again reminded how tired she must be, and here he is keeping her from resting.

“Get some sleep,” he tells her. “I heard from Lance that Kavan wants us to go before the King tomorrow morning.”

When his friend does not argue with him even a little, he knows just how exhausted she is. She settles back onto her mattress and slips under the sterilized sheets. Then, he watches her bring Vandar’s cradle closer to the edge of the bed as she positions herself on her side. Facing the baby, she rests on her pillow and extends her arm so her hand can lie atop his stomach like before. Her eyelids blink slowly as she stares at Vandar, and the bounty hunter can see her fighting sleep.

In order to give her a few moments of privacy, he moves to the corner of the room and picks up the chair he had been sitting on about an hour ago. Quietly, he relocates it to the other side of the bed so he can face the door and his two companions.

As he sits down, he notes that Talia has already fallen asleep. His gaze then transfers to the baby who is beginning to snore loudly again. He smirks to himself, and before he knows it, he is staring at the slumbering woman stationed behind his ward. Her dark lashes kiss the top of her cheeks as she takes in shallow breaths. The peaceful sight relaxes him, and he finds himself nodding off, too.

The last thing he remembers before darkness claims him is feeling just how familiar this is: him watching over an “injured” Talia while the baby sleeps within arm’s reach of both of them, just like Cholganna.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_The next day . . ._

Well, the morning is filled with pomp and ceremony. First off, Minister Nader officially thanks Talia for saving his son’s life—he even grants her a much too tender kiss on the hand to show his appreciation.

By mid-morning, the bounty hunter and Talia find out that Rami has been pulled from his Bacta tank. His doctors believe a week’s bed-rest and close attention to his injuries will return him to his former health with no complications in the foreseeable future. So, after much persuasion, Talia gets the bounty hunter to Rami’s room after leaving Vandar under Clae’s medical supervision. He puts up more of a fight in going than he really feels since he likes the kid, but he was not eager to let his friend figure that out.

“My Lady,” Rami says with wide eyes when he sees them. He tries to sit up in his bed. His quarters at the Temple are dark save for a horizontal lantern embedded in the wall above him. The light is a soft orange, painting Rami’s shirtless chest a bronze color. His ringlet hair is dry from the Bacta, and his dark blue eyes almost appear black. The bounty hunter can see that the bandages around his arm and abdomen look tight, preventing him from moving too much.

“Don’t get up,” Talia assures Rami. She quickly closes the distance between them and lays a hand on his shoulder. The bounty hunter quietly trails behind her. “How are you feeling? And don’t say ‘fine,’” she warns with a smile. “I can usually tell when someone’s lying to me.”

Rami squints his eyes shrewdly at her, as if her words revealed more about her to him, but he nods and lies back down. Pulling his sheet higher over his chest, he clears his throat and replies, “I feel drained. But I’m glad to be alive. Thank you, my Lady. For coming after me. And you, too, Traxell.”

The bounty hunter simply nods. In their short visit, he hardly says anything, but Rami does not seem to notice. His attention is focused on Talia who talks with him about the training they both received with a vibrosword. Over the next few minutes, the two members of Clan Kex share their preference of that weapon over blasters. Rami beams at Talia when she inspects his thin blade and declares that its balance and craftmanship are both remarkable.

After they wrap up their visit, they are summoned to the palace’s throne room. It is a medium-sized chamber with columns and ornamental doors at its entrance. Various shades of golds and blues decorate the walls, and marble floors glisten with wealth. A stiff-looking throne takes center stage with two cushioned benches stationed on each side.

Out of respect, the bounty hunter stiffly bows to their welcome party and then watches Talia reunite with her family. No one except the King, Kavan, and Thea are present. Not even the guards are allowed to witness the gathering—which is a good thing since King Ridha dismisses decorum entirely and embraces Talia with abundant affection. The fifteen-year-old looks like a little boy clinging to his beloved godmother rather than the sovereign ruler of the Japrael System.

The bounty hunter notices that Lord Kavan disapproves of the display of love while Thea smiles at the scene. She wraps her arms around her second cousin and whispers something in her ear, which makes both women giggle like school-girls. But when Talia faces the Regent, she offers him a polite bow. Kavan’s simple nod and grim expression lower the bounty hunter’s respect for him.

“So,” the boy-King says in a deep voice while looking directly at him. “This is the famous Danaan Traxell of Clan Wren that I keeping hearing about.”

For a moment, the bounty hunter is surprised he had never noticed before that Ridha’s accent reminds him of Talia’s, elegant with a hint of Onderonian roots. But he recovers from this revelation by bowing to the young monarch again. When he returns to his full height, he finds himself under the observation of a pair of serious hazel-green eyes. Ridha’s expression is curious, and the splash of freckles on his upper cheeks makes him seem almost childlike. Yet, there is a maturity in his gaze that startles the bounty hunter.

Dressed in a royal blue tunic with long sleeves and burnt orange trousers, Ridha stands at five-foot-two, but the bounty hunter doubts he will remain that height for very long. Ridha’s dark brown hair, curly and thick, is slicked back, and it is burying a thin crown in its depths. He sees that the ornamental headgear is made of yellow-gold and is simply designed as a thin band wrapping around his head. Its pristine surface is adorned with angular grooves and sapphires embellishing all the way around it. Ridha looks more like a prince who should be given more time to learn how to rule than a king weighed down with responsibility.

“And you’re from Mandalore,” the young monarch adds.

“I’m actually from Tribe Ordo,” the bounty hunter discloses. It feels wrong to lie to a king who has provided him with so much hospitality. He sees that the news surprises everyone, including Talia. Kavan surveys him from his helmet down to his boots one more time before the corner of his lips rises a centimeter.

“I thought so,” he muses aloud. They all look at him. “Traxell said, ‘This is the way,’ and I’ve heard that motto belongs to a remnant of Ordo.”

“And how do you know that?” Talia asks.

“I’ve been keeping tabs on the Mandalorian Clans since the Purge.”

“If this is true,” Ridha says to the bounty hunter, “then I gladly welcome you as one of my kin, Traxell.”

“ _If_ that is your name,” his father remarks. “The Viceroy’s confided to me, Ridha, that perhaps he has given us an alias.”

“It’s for his own protection,” Talia interrupts before the bounty hunter can explain. She steps closer to him, as if ready to block him from some kind of verbal attack. “I gave him the name, and he’s used it ever since.”

“Protection?” Thea echoes, her hazel eyes widen with intrigue. “Tallie, you didn’t mention this.”

“So,” her son wonders, “then whom do I owe my thanks for assisting us in this mess with the Antars? You have helped bring their plots to light and went to Dxun to retrieve my godmother. Might I know your name?”

Out of the corner of his eye, the bounty hunter sees Talia open her mouth, no doubt to shield him again, but he raises his hand at her. His silent petition to answer the King himself is heeded, and he says, “With all due respect, but my name is my business. I’m just an ordinary Mando from Tribe Ordo. For most of my career,” he adds, “I’ve been known as ‘Mando,’ and I’d like to keep it that way. My Tribe—and not our names—is what matters. And for us, that is an honorable thing.”

The three members of the Tor family say nothing for a few seconds, obviously taking this in. He senses Talia stiffen beside him, which tells him that he just may have been too impertinent right in front of Onderonian royalty, yet he does not regret what he said. If Kavan raised his son correctly and if Thea truly has grown up amongst their culture, then they all should know how blunt a Mando can be and how important honor is to him.

“Very well,” Ridha declares. “On behalf of my family and the Court, we thank you, Mando, for helping us discover the corruption of the Antars. But I most heartily thank you for saving my Lady Talia’s life.”

He nods at the commendation, even though he does not feel as if he deserved it. After all, the majority of his actions was based on his desire to protect the baby at all costs. However, deep down he knows that if Talia was the only one who had gotten kidnapped and not Vandar, he still would have gone after her without hesitation.

His nod is returned by the King, and Lord Kavan speaks again: “We also want to give you an official apology, Mando, for what happened to you and your adoptive child. You were a guest of Lady Talia’s and of Onderon, and you should not have been treated the way you were during your stay here.” His green eyes are hard, his posture stiff, yet the bounty hunter sees the other man’s sharp jawline soften with respect. “We ask for your pardon,” he says with a slight bow.

The apology makes the bounty hunter blink at both Kavan and Ridha in surprise. Stealing a glance at Talia, he wonders if she had anything to do with this, but then he does not know how she managed to pull it off since he has hardly left her and Vandar alone for very long. The only thing he can think of saying tumbles out of him in Mando’a.

“ _Kih’parjai_ *,” he replies, his voice sounding gravellier than normal. At the last minute, he remembers to bow to the royals.

 _(_ * _pronounced: Kee-PAR-jai; translation: “No problem” / “Don't mention it”)_

Thea gives him an amused smile, Talia dons a neutral expression, and the Regent subtly shakes his head. Ridha, on the other hand, suppresses a chuckle and allows the bounty hunter to retreat from the throne room by giving him a bow.

Well, he does not need to be told twice. He heads for the exit in record time, his cloak flapping behind him. Once the doors closed, he sets a course back to Clae and Vandar, two people he does not have to be on his best behavior for.

A few hours pass, and Talia does not join him, which is to be expected. So, the bounty hunter simply waits for her with Vandar. Together, they watch Clae shine her armor and chat about her job as a medic. At some point, they are reunited with R6-D12. Though the baby lights up when he sees the orange and white astrodroid, his guardian is less enthusiastic. The bucket of bolts informs him that Talia will meet him and Vandar at the Temple’s entrance in the late afternoon. It then reveals that she is making some last-minute arrangements; however, R6 does not explain further.

Despite the droid’s discretion, the bounty hunter understands what it was trying to convey. Since Talia will be going off-world soon, he figures she needed to tie up some loose ends at Court. He just hopes everything will be settled because he is anxious to leave and start traveling again. There is an itch in his blood, and he is not sure if he is excited to start afresh somewhere else or to travel with a new companion.

He finds himself wondering what Talia is saying to people to explain her absence—if she is even sharing that with them at all. But judging from the lack of red eyes, sniffles, and tears on her face when she meets up with him, he has a feeling she is sneaking out of her family’s life for the second time.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_The following morning . . ._

They are leaving Onderon today. The bounty hunter had packed the previous night and was ready in a matter of minutes. Talia on the other hand took much longer. With an ever-growing list to complete she had walked around the house, her protocol droid trailing behind her and Vandar trailing behind it. While RUBY carried out his order to transfer the house to the closest Dewan family member, Talia locked herself in her study and finalized some private arrangements. The bounty hunter did not ask what she was doing, nor did he bother her. He just made sure the baby did not get trampled on during the commotion.

When he woke up this morning, he had half a mind to give his friend another day to finish her preparations. He even headed to the dining room after his breakfast with that purpose, but he thought better of it the moment he saw a thin mattress all rolled up and sitting atop a large, black footlocker. Both items were waiting at the entryway, their presence telling him that Talia was ready to leave today as planned.

With a satisfied nod, he joined his friend and Vandar in the dining room and watched them eat their breakfast.

“I want to stop by Boma’s Brews on our way to my ship,” he says after a few minutes of small talk. “To say goodbye to Nazim.”

“Do you want to go alone?” Talia asks then takes a sip of her steaming cup of shig.

“Nah, I don’t mind the company. Besides,” he casually adds, “I don’t want either of you out of my sight.”

Talia smiles behind her teacup and takes another sip. The baby is sitting next to her. Well, he is actually sitting _on_ the table, his own plate stationed beside hers. His long ears flap downward in pleasure as he munches on some fruit.

A loud knock on the door echoes from the courtyard, startling the three companions. Talia, who must not be expecting company, immediately puts her cup down and rises to her feet. While the bounty hunter also stands and stations himself off to the side, he notices Talia running her hands across her clothes to rid the material of invisible wrinkles.

Today, his companion is wearing a pale green tunic with half-sleeves and with a hem that reaches her shins. The bodice section of the tunic fits Talia nicely before it flares out around her stomach like a dress. Underneath it, she has donned a pair of matching, loose-fitting trousers and dull gold slippers down below. The material of both pieces of clothing seems airy and does not boast of obvious wealth. Faded lace, which looks like a coppery-color, has been embroidered along the tunic’s V-neck collar and sleeves, including the hem of her trousers.

Hanging around Talia’s shoulders is a light pink shawl with pale gold trim. Its material is thin and a little transparent, and it seems to float on air whenever she moves. Her entire outfit reminds him of spring itself: fresh and innocent, cool and simple.

Talia’s hair is, to him, a stark contrast to both her shawl and the rest of her clothes. It is dark and thick and hangs down her back freely in rich waves. When she faces the entrance to the dining room, he is able to catch sight of a braid that dangles from the top of her head down to her lower back. The braid had gathered the top portion of hair together and had almost blended in completely with the rest of her locks.

As she folds her hands in front of her, waiting for RUBY to escort her uninvited guest, the bounty hunter notices she is not wearing any kind of jewelry. No bracelets, no rings, not even Vandar’s favorite gold necklace with its emerald stone. The lack of her Onderonian-styled ornaments is indeed odd, but when he thinks about it, their absence suits her. She is simply Talia and not a politician boasting authority and influence through her expensive jewelry.

RUBY appears behind the screen that blocks the courtyard from view. His dull red plating shines from a recent polish, and his golden eyes glow with warmth. “My Lady,” he says with a bow, his mechanical voice quiet like a whispering breeze. “You have several guests wishing to see you and Master Traxell.”

“Very well, RUBY,” she replies with a nod.

The droid steps aside and announces, “Captain Lance, field medic Clae, and scouts Kurs and Deke.”

The Mandos enter the room in the order that RUBY had named them. Their armors are free of smudges from Dxun, and they have clipped their respective helmets to their belts. The bounty hunter notices that a rucksack is hanging from Lance’s shoulder, its material made from black velvet.

“Rami sends ’is compliments,” Clae shares with them.

“Thank you,” Talia greets them. “But I’m curious as to what this is all about.”

“Well,” Lance replies with a guilty smile, “a little birdie told me that Traxell here is leaving today. So, we all wanted to swing by and say, ‘ _Ret’urcye mhi_ *.’”

 _(_ * _pronounced: ray-TOOR-shay-MEE; translation: “Goodbye”; meaning: literally, “Maybe we’ll meet again”)_

“A little birdie?” she asks, eying her honorary nephew suspiciously.

“I can’t give my source’s name,” he apologizes with a teasing smile. He crosses his arms, his blood-red armor glistening in the lights, and the bounty hunter silently chuckles to himself. Although he suspects the “birdie” may be Ryk’ken, he cannot stop from feeling feels just a little smug knowing that the Viceroy’s own son had taken the time to see him off.

With his thought in mind, Kurs approaches him first. His green-colored Beskar still has dents on it, and he spies a few news scratches from the Maalraa that attacked them on the Demon Moon.

“It was an honor fighting beside you,” the quiet Mando says, extending an arm to him.

“The honor was mine,” the bounty hunter replies. He grips the inside of Kurs’ forearm, and his action is returned. With a nod, they “shake” and release each other.

Next is Deke.

“It’s been fun,” he tells him, shrugging. He offers a hand, and they briefly shake in mutual respect.

As the cream-armored Mando steps aside, Clae takes his place. Her brunette hair on the left side of her head covers half her freckled face, but he does not miss the disappointment in her hazel eyes.

“I guess I can’t convince ye ta stay,” she remarks more than asks. Her slanted accent sounds nonchalant, but he knows better. After Talia’s teasing comment the day before, he now realizes that Clae had taken an interest in him. And why? He has no idea.

“I really appreciate what you did for them,” he says, nodding towards his ward and Talia. He extends a hand to her. “ _Vor’e_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: VOHR-ay; translation: “Thanks”)_

The gray-armored woman accepts the hand and gives it a firm shake. Before she turns away, she shrugs her shoulders and whispers, “I was jus’ doing muh job, Trax. Keep them safe for meh.”

He nods. Lance clears his throat but does not move to pay his respects. Instead, he asks his companions, “Do you think you guys can give me a minute?”

“Sure thing, Captain,” Deke says, motioning for the other two to leave the room with him.

The bounty hunter shares a glance with Talia. They watch Lance whisper something to RUBY who then disappears for a moment. Vandar whines from his spot on the table, and Talia picks him up. As she murmurs to him, R6 rolls into the dining room.

“Hey, little guy,” Lance greets the droid. “Can you show a hologram from a frequency I’ll send you?”

The tin-can tweets a response, and the bounty hunter—who still has the program that can translate binary—reads on the inside of his visor: _“Sure thing!”_

Lance presses a few buttons on his gauntlet then turns to him and Talia. “I have a couple of surprises for you two. Go ahead, R6.”

After another beep, the droid turns on his projector. A medium-sized hologram appears on top of the table, and the bounty hunter sees Rami, sitting up on his bed. The young man looks more alert and rested than the day before, and his blue image enhances the smile on his face.

 _“Hello there,”_ he greets them, his accent-free voice clear.

“It’s good to see you, Rami,” Talia replies with a smile. “I hope you’re not straining yourself too early.”

 _“Can’t. My doctors have ordered more bed-rest. And I’m kinda glad,”_ he whispers. _“The food here is amazing.”_

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” the bounty hunter inquires dryly. He moves closer to Talia so Rami can see them both.

The two eighteen-year-olds exchange looks before Lance says, “I know Talia’s leaving with you, Traxell. So, I told Rami—”

“Your father’s not as discreet as I thought he’d be,” the bounty hunter remarks with a huff.

“Well, he was pretty disappointed that Talia’s leaving. Said something about knowing she won’t be coming back.”

“You never know,” she corrects, setting Vandar back onto the table. The baby waddles over to his plate and begins munching on more fruit.

 _“I wanted to see you both before you left,”_ Rami interrupts. He runs a hand through is black, ringlet hair. _“And we have something to give you. To both of you. But, ladies first.”_

Again, the bounty hunter and Talia share a glance. The young Captain reaches inside his rucksack and pulls out a small wooden box. Then, he hands it to Talia, saying, “We both pitched in, _ba’vodu_ *.”

_(*pronounced: BAH-vod-oo; translation: “aunt” or “auntie”)_

Once the box is in her hands, Talia opens it. Inside is a necklace and a pendant. The necklace itself is a thin, black cord made of the same material as the bounty hunter’s. While his carries a silver Mythosaur skull as its pendant, Talia’s new piece of jewelry features the _Beskaryc Kar’ta_ *, the Mandalorian Iron Heart. The vertical hexagon is small, about three centimeters long and over a centimeter wide. Its outline had been forged in bright bronze, and the middle is polished ebony. When Talia brings the necklace closer for inspection, the bounty hunter can see a rectangle etched in the center of the pendant.

 _(_ * _pronounced: BES-kar-EESH Kah-ROH-ta; translation: “Iron Heart”)_

“It’s beautiful,” he hears her say. “You didn’t have to.”

_“We wanted to.”_

“I know that,” Lance adds, “you don’t wear your armor a lot. So, this is something to help remind you of your roots.”

 _“Though I doubt you need reminding, my Lady,”_ Rami chimes in. _“It looks better than I expected. How much do I owe you, Ryk’ken?”_

“We’ll talk about that later, Nader.” Lance smiles at his honorary aunt. “We had it made in record time for you. Look at the back. There’s an inscription.”

Talia turns over the pendant, and the bounty hunter reads a phrase engraved in Mando’a: “ _Aliit ori’shya tal’din_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: Ah-LEET-or-EESH-yah-tal-DEEN; translation: “Family is more than blood”)_

A half-smile plays on his lips, though no one will ever see it. The words are an old saying well-known in their culture. It is fitting that the young Mandos chose it for Talia’s pendant. Though neither of them is connected to her by blood, their Clan is a major factor to each of their bonds. Rami had sworn himself to Kex and offered his services when Talia was on Dxun, just like any Mando brother would do for another member of his Clan. As for Lance, he is a nephew to her, a connection made by choice and forged in time.

The bounty hunter steals a glance at Talia and finds her giving her boys a bittersweet smile. She pulls Lance in for a hug, and he wraps his arms around her. His darker skin and blood-red armor look fearsome compared to her feminine clothes. When they break apart, she sets her right hand on Lance’s left shoulder. After he mirrors her, they press their foreheads together briefly, giving one another the Japrael System’s greeting and farewell.

A couple of seconds pass before the pair withdraws. Talia turns to Rami’s hologram and places her right arm across her chest in an affectionate salute. When Rami does the same, they both send each other a dignified nod.

“Your turn, Traxell,” Lance says, ending the solemn silence. He retrieves something from his rucksack: a blaster pistol.

“You don’t owe me anything guys,” he tells them, but as he eyes the weapon, he can feel his trigger finger twitching.

 _“Lance might not,”_ Rami agrees. _“But I do. I heard how you helped get rid of the Maalraa that attacked me. I insist you take this, Traxell.”_

He hesitates, but when Talia sends him a scolding look, he relents and accepts the weapon. After all, one can never have too many blasters. He knows just where to put this one in his arsenal on the _Crest_.

The compact blaster is medium-sized and weighs more than his own. He notices that it has a heavy durasteel plating all around it, which is a grayish blue. In some areas, the paint is chipped and has cracked over time, giving it an experienced look. But like most weapons, it is still a beautiful tool to behold. A scope sits on top of the pistol’s barrel, making him think that its range must be lengthy.

“What type?” he asks Rami.

 _“A Model 434 blaster pistol,”_ the younger man replies. _“It’s also called the ‘DeathHammer.’ Manufactured by Merr-Sonn Munitions, Inc. Worth about 650 credits.”_

“Fancy. Range?”

_“For optimum accuracy: up to 30 meters. And max’s is up to 120.”_

At this, the bounty hunter tears his eyes away from his gift and stares at Rami. “Impressive. Laser color?”

_“Lightning blue.”_

“How’d you come by this?” Talia asks while the bounty hunter continues to study it. “I’ve seen mercs and assassins use this model before.”

_“I earned it after I won a Fighting Circle against a gangster. I was still training at the time.”_

“How old were you?”

_“Fifteen.”_

The bounty hunter snaps his attention back onto Rami. For some reason, the weapon suddenly feels heavier. “Are you sure you’re willing to give this to me?”

 _“Positive,”_ the young man states. _“I prefer vibroblades anyway. Besides, a DeathHammer is also favored by bounty hunters. You’ll probably have more use for it than I ever could.”_

Humbled by the token, the bounty hunter simply nods and mumbles, “ _Vor’e_ *.” He then clips the blaster to his belt.

 _(_ * _pronounced: VOHR-ay)_

Respect for Rami grows within him, but he does not trust himself to say anything else. He will miss the kid, and Lance. They have both proven themselves to be honorable and loyal and every inch a Mando just like him. If he had a bigger ship, he may have asked them to become a part of his crew. He can use partners like them; they sure would have made a fearsome team.

 _“Well, I gotta go,”_ Rami announces, clearing his throat. _“My father’s supposed to be heading over here.”_

“I hope you’re on better terms,” Talia says kindly.

 _“Still bumpy. And awkward. But he’s getting easier to talk to.”_ He glances at her then at the bounty hunter and sits up a little straighter on his bed. _“My Lady. Traxell._ Ret’urcye mhi* _.’”_

 _(_ * _pronounced: ray-TOOR-shay-MEE)_

They both echo the old phrase, and Rami ends the connection. R6 twitters and whistles, but the bounty hunter ignores it.

“I need to head out, too,” Lance sighs. With a sad nod, Talia hugs him one more time, her expression somber. He shakes the bounty hunter’s hand, bids them farewell, and slips away.

“Are you sure you want to leave them?” he asks his companion once he is certain the young man is out of earshot. It feels wrong to pull her away. “Maybe the stars can wait for you a little longer.”

Talia had been putting on her new necklace but stopped at his question. She eyes him carefully, yet he can see a playful sparkle in her gaze. “If I didn’t know better, Ordo,” she teases, “I’d say you’re trying to get rid of me already.”

“I’m not, Kex.”

“And I’m sure of what I’m doing.” She fastens her necklace, the tiny pendant resting against her throat. “I’ve let the stars wait for me long enough, and I am more than ready to do some exploring. But,” she adds, quirking a dark eyebrow at him, “are _you_ sure you’re still willing to let me go with you?”

“Just as long as you know that I’m still bounty hunting.” He crosses his arms.

“I do,” she states, nodding at him. “And I promise not to judge. I just want to help you take care of Vandar.”

With that being settled, they grab the child and head for the door. After gathering her two droids, Talia instructs R6 to deliver their luggage to the bounty hunter’s ship at Ruping Hangar. She then says good-bye to RUBY.

“I know my family will love having you with them,” she assures the droid.

“I will remember my time serving you with great fondness, my Lady,” RUBY declares in his quiet voice. He bows to her low and long, his dull red plating looking as shiny as it can be.

The baby whines when they walk out the door, leaving the droid-butler behind them. To comfort him, Talia steals him from his guardian who then hails them a taxi.

Their twenty-minute ride to Boma’s Brews is quiet. The bounty hunter is comfortable with the silence, but each time he glances in Talia’s direction he sees her swiveling her head left then right, taking in the city one last time. He has a feeling she is tucking away as much of it and its memories as she can, and he hopes she does not cry anytime soon.

When they arrive at Boma’s Brews, the bounty hunter finds Nazim behind the bar’s counter, getting ready for the afternoon wave.

“Trax!” Nazim exclaims once he sees him. “You’re still here, _ner burc’ya_ *! It’s been, what? A couple of weeks?”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha)_

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” he says as he walks over to the counter and its assortment of rainbow spirits.

The bar owner waves a dismissive hand at him. “Eh, I’m used to—um, wow. M-my Lady,” he sputters, bowing to Talia. His blue eyes are wide with wonder. “I’m honored b-by your presence. W-welcome to my humble establishment.”

With a dazzling smile, she nods at him. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Master Nazim. I’ve enjoyed many a drink and conversation here. But please, excuse me,” she says.

As if she owns the place, Talia walks around the cantina, following Vandar as he waddles underneath tables and between chairs. It seems she is taking her nanny duties seriously. And early.

“You’re with _her_?” he hears Nazim whisper to him. “Wow, Trax. When I said you should find yourself an Onderonian woman, you really went up the food chain with her.”

“It’s not like that,” he clarifies. When the other man stares at him, clearly not believing him, the bounty hunter explains, “Really, Nazim. She was the friend I came to see. That’s all.”

The Onderonian blinks at him before shrugging his broad shoulders. While wiping down his red countertop, he sighs in disappointment, “Oh, fine. Have it your way. But that’s still impressive if you ask me.”

Before Nazim can let his colorful imagination get the better of him, the bounty hunter shares, “I came to say that you’ve been very helpful to me. You know, giving me information and insight about Iziz and other things. And your company has been good, too. So, thank you.”

His little speech earns him a bright smile from Nazim. He slaps him on the shoulder and replies, “Why, thank _you_ , Trax. But that sounded an awful like a goodbye speech to me.”

“It is. I’m leaving today.”

The bartender’s smile wavers at the news. “So, Onderon wasn’t much to your liking then, huh?”

Keeping his face straight, the bounty hunter’s eyes roam over to where Talia has just picked up the baby. “I wouldn’t say that,” he admits. “But I really didn’t intend to settle here. Just to see a friend.”

“Well, if you ever decide to come back and, you know, visit her . . .” Nazim jerks his head in Talia’s direction before wiggling his black brows at him. A smirk plays on his lips, making the bounty hunter roll his eyes. If only the other man knew that he is taking the Angel of Onderon with him. “Of course,” Nazim adds, “if you need more info, you know where to find me.” He extends a hand to him.

“Thanks,” he says warmly, shaking his hand. “I’ll remember that.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_At the_ Razor Crest _. . ._

He and Talia—with R6’s “help”—unload their cargo aboard his ship. But the droid does not help, not really. All it does is whistle and beep, giving orders that the bounty hunter refuses to follow.

In a slightly frustrating way, Vandar keeps trailing behind them and almost gets stepped on a few times. After a while, Talia sets him in his box-cradle with his small Nexu pelt, and his guardian sends her a grateful nod.

Once she has her foot-locker stashed away against the wall of the _Crest_ , Talia walks down the main ramp to where R6 has stationed its cylinder body just outside. He watches her gracefully kneel in front of it and wrap her arms around it.

“I’m going to miss you, my friend,” she says, pulling away.

R6 releases a long whir and two sad beeps. _“Do you have to go?”_ the bounty hunter reads. _“Take me with you.”_

_I don’t think so, tin-can. Over my dead body._

“You know I can’t,” Talia scolds him, her accent warm and caring. She runs a finger over the droid’s orange plating. “Besides, who’s going to finish remodeling my ship, huh? I’m trusting you to make sure it’s done just as we planned.”

At this, R6 whistles in a tone that sounds like a pout. _“Okay. The ship should be completed soon. I’ll miss you.”_

“And I’ll miss you,” she admits with a sad smile. “You know how to contact me if there’s an emergency. But don’t advertise it.”

_“I won’t.”_

Again, she wraps her arms around the metal nuisance and gives it another hug. For a moment, the bounty hunter feels bad she has to leave it here; after all, she told him that R6 has been a constant companion for the majority of her life. But when he remembers how annoying and snarky and sarcastic that astromech can be, his guilt quickly transforms into relief.

“Goodbye, my little friend,” he hears her say. “Be safe.”

He watches her leave the droid behind and return to his ship. When he catches her eye, she sends him a nod. Taking her cue, he presses a button on his gauntlet, ordering the cargo hatch to close.

“ _Starlight_ ’s getting remodeled?” he asks as the door squeaks shut.

“No. They took it away from me. Apparently,” she huffs, “it wasn’t my mother’s ship in the first place. Someone did a little digging and found out that it belongs to the Crown.”

 _Bet it was Cass,_ the bounty hunter thinks, glad he ended that coward’s miserable life. He picks up Vandar from his box-cradle and climbs up the ladder connecting the _Crest_ ’s main compartment to the cockpit.

Behind him, he hears Talia explain, “In the end, Thea and Ridha gifted me with another ship altogether. It needed repairs and some changes so it can suit me better. I’m having R6 watch over the construction.”

After ascending the ladder, carrying the kid with one hand, he reaches the second level. When he sees the top of Talia’s head, he realizes she has not been up here before.

“Did you get to say goodbye to your family?” he asks conversationally. He thinks of offering her a helping hand but decides against it.

“I did,” she replies. “Yesterday.”

Now in the cockpit with him, she removes her pink shawl from hanging around her neck like a scarf and wraps it around shoulders. When she is done, the bounty hunter hands Vandar to her. The baby coos at her as his guardian takes his seat in the pilot’s chair. He hears Talia settle on the seat behind him, on his left.

After turning on the engines, he notices that not only is his fuel tank filled up to the maximum but that his reserve tanks are also full. He glances over his shoulder at Talia, who is taking in her new surroundings with curiosity. This woman keeps on spoiling him; they are about to leave her planet, and she is still acting as his hostess.

With a slight shake of his head, he faces forward again and grips the controls. He receives the green-light from the hangar to proceed with his exit, and a few seconds later, he is steering the _Crest_ out of the building into the sky. As they escape Onderon’s atmosphere, he flips some switches and plugs in coordinates for the Mid Rim Territory.

He flies them through a battalion of clouds, and soon their blue and gray surroundings transition into space, black and filled with diamond stars beckoning him further with their silent call. Behind him he hears the baby giggle, and he feels himself smirk. Space stretches as far as the eye can see. The scene before him is so familiar, so peaceful that he allows the ship to zoom through its endless depths for a few minutes.

Then, he flips a switch and eases the _Crest_ into hyperspace. In less than a second, the stars become longer, growing into thin lines before they disappear completely and morph into the swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace.

* * *

A Boma:

King Ridha Dendup Tor's Attire:

Talia's Attire:

Lance Ryk'ken and Rami Nader's gifts to Talia and Mando: the _Beskaryc Kar’ta_ * (Mandalorian Iron Heart) necklace & pendant and a Model 434 blaster pistol (aka DeathHammer)

(Fun fact: That necklace is real. I stumbled across it when doing research about the Mandalorian Iron Heart. If you're curious, check out ebay.com or aliexpress.com. I'd buy it myself, but I'm not willing to dish out that much money. At least, not yet, Lol.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, "The Mandalorian" Season 2's trailer dropped today. I was excited to see it, but I also felt dread. Its coming, and its episodes, will surely change things. I guess I keep thinking Favreau will ruin his own creation. "Why do we have to keep going back to Tatooine, man?" I keep asking him even though he can't hear me. "There's nothing interesting there. Not really. Just sand and heat." As you all can see, that's my least favorite planet.


	16. Adjustments

Chapter XVI: Adjustments

_Location: Hyperspace (Corellian Run, entering the Mid Rim)_

It has been a few days since they left Onderon, and their trip has been . . . interesting so far. The bounty hunter is trying to get used to having another person, besides the baby, onboard the _Crest_. Not that he is regretting his decision to allow a certain female Onderonian join him in his travels. It is just . . . different.

For most of his life he has been alone. He has grown accustomed to silence, save the constant humming of his ship. There had never been a need to make chit-chat with anyone, especially not with his latest quarries. Yet, with two other people sharing the _Crest_ with him . . . it will take more than a few days to adapt to them.

Vandar, for the record, is fine. If anything, he is loving the attention he is receiving from two adults. He waddles around the small environs of the ship with a spring in his step, and he always seems to be within arm’s reach of his new nanny. His guardian has found the baby snuggled next to her more than once, either during nap- or bedtimes.

As for Talia . . . well, she has been quieter than the bounty hunter expected her to be—not that she is a loud person to begin with. She keeps to herself and mostly stays in the _Crest_ ’s main compartment. A part of him wonders if maybe she is putting space between them so _he_ can have some breathing room. But before she gets ready for bed, she has made a point to visit him in the cockpit. She initiates small-talk yet eventually just stares at the never-ending cyan tunnel of hyperspace as if spellbound by its bright passage. Though silence settles between them most of the time, he finds her company relaxing. Serenity seems to emanate from her, which he finds very soothing.

At night, Talia sleeps on her bedroll and uses her Nexu pelt as her blanket. She seems to have figured out a routine and has taken charge of Vandar’s needs, such as food, baths, playtime—pretty much everything. But the bounty hunter cannot shake this feeling that she is trying to be an invisible passenger, agreeing with whatever he says. His gut tells him Talia does not want to step on his toes nor invade his privacy. She has not even peeked through the ship’s compartments, either out of curiosity or the need to retrieve something for the baby.

But by the fourth day of their travels, she seems more comfortable, more herself—which makes him relax. Right now, she is going through her footlocker. Vandar had whined when he realized she was not wearing her emerald pendant necklace, so Talia had opened up her luggage to put it on. Though, the bounty hunter wonders why she is spoiling the kid. At the moment, she is still wearing her Iron Heart necklace that Lance and Rami had given her, its bronze and ebony metal flickering in the light. In his opinion, Vandar should just get used to the idea that she will not always have his favorite piece of jewelry fastened around her neck. He suspects the reason why the kid likes that emerald pendant is because its stone is the same color as his skin.

“Did you even pack it?” he asks her dryly as he leans against the ladder that connects the room to the cockpit.

“Yes, I did,” she throws over her shoulder. She pulls out a set of boots from her footlocker and sets it beside the kid. “I wouldn’t have left it behind, Ordo. It’s important to me, too. I put all my jewelry in a pouch. It’s around here. Somewhere.”

For a few minutes he watches her. Honestly, he is curious as to how much stuff she had been able to pack. He counts two pairs of boots, five tunics, four trousers, weapons—such as her vibrorapier, blaster, and two knives—and their holsters, cloaks, shawls, and a few small boxes that rattle with more items when Talia places them on the floor.

Her footlocker is not only long but also deep with a handful of compartments inside its lid. He is about to suggest that maybe she stashed her jewelry pouch in one of those drawers when he sees Vandar digging through her clothes. The green child is making a mess, turning her nicely folded tunics into wrinkly piles. With a sigh, the bounty hunter walks over to him. Kneeling, he picks up Vandar with one hand and tries to remedy his untidiness.

As he does this and as Talia mutters to herself, he notices a pewter box sitting behind her. It is about a foot long and half a foot thick, but what catches his attention is how advanced it looks compared to the small wooden boxes she has stored in her footlocker. He sees that this narrow container has three kinds of locking mechanisms: a keyhole, a thumbprint scanner, and a keypad.

 _That’s a little excessive if you ask me,_ he thinks to himself.

For some reason, he allows his curiosity of this mysterious box to get the better of him. Before he can stop himself, he scoots behind Talia and reaches for the pewter container. His gloved hand grazes the top when Talia suddenly slaps her own hand atop of his, trapping him.

Stunned that she knew what he was doing even though her back has been to him this whole time, he freezes as if he has been caught pickpocketing. He looks up at her, but she still has not turned around to face him. Her posture is stiff, and he can feel her fingers tightly pressing into his hand.

“That’s private,” she tells him, her elegant accent deadly serious. Lying underneath her tone is a protectiveness that he has not heard from her before. It even sounds stronger than her fondness for the child.

At first, he wants to rebuke her for practically snapping at him, but he holds his tongue. _He_ would not like it if someone started going through his personal items, and Talia has abstained from doing just that with him. While the entire ship is his personal property, her footlocker—which she sleeps next to every night—is her own small space that he needs to respect.

So, he clears his throat and says, “Sorry.” He then slides his hand from beneath hers.

They do not talk about the incident after that, nor does he ask what is inside that mysterious box. But he does find himself paying special attention to Talia whenever she rummages through her footlocker, just in case she ever decides to show him the box’s contents.

The next day, he hears Talia say to the baby that she is going to teach him to play hide-and-seek.

“He already knows how to play,” the bounty hunter reminds her. The little womp-rat has done that to him on too many occasions, making him worry a good portion of the time.

“But this is a different kind of hide-and-seek,” she tells them both.

He watches her explain that, while she looks for Vandar, she wants him to move from one hiding spot to another. The trick is that he cannot make any noise and must relocate without being seen. The bounty hunter inwardly scoffs at the game. There are not a lot of places for Vandar to hide in, and the _Crest_ ’s various compartments squeak whenever they are opened. But as long as they are both occupied while he hides in the cockpit and eats his lunch, he will not say anything to discourage them.

For ten minutes he hears the two moving around the room down below. Talia chuckles, and the baby squeals. By the time the bounty hunter has finished his meal and has put his helmet back on, Vandar has magically appeared in the cockpit with him. His pointy ears twitch excitedly as he tries to climb onto his guardian’s lap.

He is about to reach down and pick him up when he hears Talia ascending the ladder. “Gotcha!” she announces, to which Vandar pouts at. She chuckles at his reaction and glances up at his guardian. “Anything new?”

“Nah,” he replies. “We’re in the Mid Rim now. How’s the kid doing?”

She beckons the baby to her, and Vandar shuffles over to her. “He’s pretty good at this,” she comments with a smile.

 _Why am I not surprised?_ he says to himself.

The two disappear for five minutes until Vandar returns to the cockpit. This time, the bounty hunter picks him up and sets him on his lap. He swivels the chair around, blocking Talia’s view of the baby when she comes looking for him.

“I can see one of his ears, you know,” he hears her remark from the ladder.

At this, Vandar glares up at him, and his ears flap down.

“Hey, don’t blame me,” the bounty hunter defends as he sets his charge on the floor for another round.

Five minutes pass again, and he is fixing a lose wire that is affecting his computer terminal. He had opened up a section of the cockpit’s base and is on his stomach, his Beskar chest-plate rubbing against the dirty, cold floor. With his body facing the ladder, he searches for the problem. After pushing aside cords and sneaking a hand in between pipes, he comes across the broken wire that turned off his security monitors. His head and right arm are plunged in the insides of his ship while he fuses the ends of the wire together. If he was not wearing his gloves, he would have been zapped. As he twists the wires, he hears Talia again.

“I know you can do better than that.”

“Excuse me?” he asks, pulling himself out. He cranes his neck and finds her on the ladder. Only her shoulders and up are visible to him.

“Not you, Ordo,” she laughs. Nodding behind him, she says, “The youngling.”

He looks over his shoulder, not sure what she is talking about. That is when he sees it: a big lump underneath his gray cloak. There is no mistaking the ends of pointy, long ears or the small stature belonging to the baby. It is amazing how the bounty hunter had not even heard Vandar come up to the cockpit. Or felt him tugging at his cloak.

“She’s right, womp-rat,” he calls out. “You can do _much_ better than that.”

A giggle erupts from beneath the worn material, and the so-called talented child shyly peeks from under the cloak.

Later that night, after Vandar has been put to bed, the bounty hunter finds Talia in the cockpit. She is sitting in the passenger seat stationed behind the pilot’s left side. Her white Nexu fur with ebony stripes is wrapped around her, keeping her warm from the coldness of space. When she sees him, she gives him a nod, which he returns. He decides to sit in the baby’s usual chair, and as he does so, he is accosted by a pleasant fragrance of sweet cream and faint lemons. Since Talia had recently washed her hair, he assumes the scent is from her shampoo or lotion.

“I’ve always liked looking at this,” she remarks, nodding at the swirling blue of hyperspace.

“I can never stare at it for too long,” he admits, slouching in his seat. “It’s given me a headache from time to time. It just keeps going on and on.”

“But that’s the beauty of it, _ner burc’ya_ *,” she replies. Her dark eyes are still looking through the front window. “There’s something comforting about the consistancy of it.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

He does not say anything, and his eyes wander to the floor.

“I was thinking,” he hears Talia begin. “Are you sure you can’t take off your helmet? At least in front of another Mando?”

Lifting his gaze to her, he braces himself for another debate about this topic. Talia is looking at him tentatively, telling him that she knows she is treading into sensitive territory.

“I told you before,” he states, his voice leveled. “If I take it off, then I can’t put it back on.”

“I know you said it’s dishonorable. But there’s got to be an exception. At least one,” she presses.

At the reminder, his brain works its way through his mental archives, but he stops his thought process by replying in a cool tone, “You’re not from my Tribe, so they’re not your concern.”

Her dark brows rise up. “So, there _are_ some,” she figures aloud, causing him to wince at his poorly phrased answer. “Do they have to do with family? Marriage?” she prods. “How about kids seeing their parents’ faces?”

Not falling for her attempt to delve deeper into this subject, he simply crosses his arms in front of him and refuses to say anything that will either confirm or deny her suspicions. But Talia does not seem frustrated at his silence. Instead, she continues to convince him.

“If you take it off for something really personal,” she tries, “no one has to know about it because it isn’t their business. So—”

“But _I’ll_ know,” he interrupts. “And that’s enough.”

“But I just can’t—”

“Talia, don’t judge my choices if you don’t understand my reasons,” he snaps, his gravelly voice firmer than it has been with her in weeks. “I’m not going to break my rules just to satisfy your curiosity.”

His gruff response does its job—perhaps a little too well. Rebuked like a child, Talia seals her lips together and drops her eyes to the floor. Silence consumes the air between them. He shifts in his seat, feeling guilty for his unfriendly words. It irks him that she cannot seem to accept his convictions. Or his Tribe’s traditions.

“Forgive me,” she quietly says after a couple of minutes. “I know we’ve talked about this before. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just . . .” She raises her eyes to him. “I wasn’t thinking of me. Truly. I was thinking of the youngling.” She sighs, her gaze emanating sincerity. “You’ve pretty much adopted him. Doesn’t he deserve to know who you are underneath that helmet?”

Her apology, her question—together, they give him a reality check. He honestly has not thought of having a long future with the kid. It simply has not entered his mind. Since he first met the little one, he has been taking things one day at a time, trying to live another twenty-four hours without getting killed. But Talia, asking him this . . . it just forces him to recognize that he needs to do more than survive with Vandar.

So, what _should_ he do with the gifted child? Keep him until he is old and grey? Assuming he lives that long. Will Vandar be an adult by that point, be able to take care of himself? Or will the bounty hunter have to find another protector for him, to make sure he remains safe until he is old enough? Maybe they just have to outlive that Imperial warlord. The man is old and should not last another twenty years. But still, that _is_ a long time. The bounty hunter cannot hop from planet to planet with the child in tow. And not for that long. Can he?

And what about Talia? After he clears his debt to her, would she be so attached to Vandar that she will ask to stay with them? How long will her interest last? In either of them?

With all these chaotic thoughts zipping through his head, he forces them in a mental closet for the time being. It is too late to think about this right now. Besides, he needs to clear the air with his companion. The last thing they need is to be tense around each other while they are both trapped in a small ship.

Not wanting there to be any awkwardness, he breaks the uncomfortable silence and says, “Sorry. For, you know.”

He ignores how awful that apology sounds and focuses on the half-smile Talia gives him. “It’s fine,” she answers.

After he sends her a nod, he rises to his feet. He should probably sit in the pilot’s chair so he can be nearby if something comes up. He swivels the seat around and is about to slip into it when Talia’s accented voice stops him.

“I can sit up here for a while,” she offers him. “If you’d like to get some rest. I can keep an eye on things for you.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he replies, “I’m good.”

Talia quirks an eyebrow at him. “You’ve stayed up here every night since we started. Why don’t you get some real sleep tonight?”

For a moment, he wants to argue with her, but he knows she is right: “real sleep” _is_ something his body is craving. Staying on Onderon had spoiled him with soft sheets, comfy pillows, and a thick mattress—so much so that his body is taking longer than it should adjusting to his ship’s bed.

“Okay,” he relents. “Just as long as you’re sure.”

She nods. “I have a few things I need to think about anyways. I doubt I’ll sleep anytime soon,” she admits. There is that faraway look in her eyes that, he recognizes, seems to accompany Talia whenever she is reliving something from her past. He has not seen that look since they left Onderon.

Before he realizes just what he is saying, he finds himself offering, “Well, when you figure those things out, it’d be interesting to hear about them.”

“Maybe. When the time’s right,” she murmurs.

So, he goes to bed. But his sleeping compartment feels like a coffin tonight—more than it has before. A yellow light illuminates the small closet, keeping him from being swallowed in total darkness. Nevertheless, he shuts his eyes because he does not want to be reminded of the walls’ close proximity. He should seriously consider investing in the idea of increasing his income so he can purchase a bigger ship. Yet, deep down, he knows he will not be able to do that. Despite its age and limited space, the _Crest_ and him have too much history and too many memories for him to let it go.

He presses a button to seal the door to the compartment. Once it snaps closed, he removes his helmet and sets it beside him. If he was alone, without Talia, without the baby, he would have taken off his armor and left the door open. But even he knows that would not have lasted for very long. His armor, especially his helmet, are his second skin, his protection. It feels wrong not to wear them, and he is certain there will never come a time when he wishes _not_ to put it on.

Shifting on his back, he forces himself to relax so he can sleep. Against his will, his brain pictures the bedroll Talia had brought with her. He cannot help but envy her. The travel mattress is not very thick, yet it is far better than the metal frame and thin blanket he is currently lying on. Talia has looked so comfortable slumbering on her bedroll with her Nexu pelt keeping her warm.

Even the baby has better sleeping arrangements than he does. Vandar is fortunate to have a box that fits his little body perfectly. With rags as his cushions and his Nexu fur as his blanket, the baby usually looks like the picture of ease and comfort in his box-cradle.

While the bounty hunter inwardly complains, he slips into unconsciousness in a matter of minutes. He sleeps for an appropriate number of hours to have gained some solid, undisturbed rest. When he emerges from his compartment, it is early morning according to his inward clock. He sees Talia climbing down the ladder, and he is amazed she has stayed in the cockpit this whole time.

After she plants her bare feet on the cold floor, she sends him a tired smile. Pulling her fur around her shoulders, she reports, “All good.”

He nods his thanks then watches her waltz to her bedroll. As he grabs some rations and Nexu jerky for himself, she settles on the mattress he had been envious of. Shaking his head at himself, he walks over to the ladder. He can hear Talia’s shallow breaths, telling him that she has already fallen asleep; her petite form barely moves underneath her Nexu pelt. How is it that both her and the kid can get knocked out so quickly?

With that question rattling in his brain, he climbs his way up to the cockpit then eats his early morning breakfast without an audience. Afterwards, he checks his navigation computer. Like Talia had said, everything is running well. He figures that they are about halfway through the Mid Rim by now. At this rate, they should be entering the Outer Rim tomorrow evening.

 _But what then?_ he asks himself. He knows he cannot keep on traveling until his credits run dry. Fuel will only last so long, and he needs to think ahead. Thankfully, Talia is able to support herself, but he needs to do the same for him and Vandar—which means he needs to get another job, preferably one that is not in any way related to the Guild.

Automatically, his thoughts wander to the last time he needed a pay-day. He had landed on Tatooine—the _Crest_ damaged—and was convinced to team up with the ambitious Toro Calican. Since neither the situation nor the alliance went well, he is not inclined to work with another stranger any time soon.

As the minutes turn into a full hour, he thinks of people or places that could help him with his financial problems. A name keeps popping up, but he dismisses it each time. It is not until after his choices have diminished one by one does he consider that name again: Ranzar Malk.

He does not need to be a genius to know that Ran will more than likely not be too pleased to hear from him. Especially since he had left their rag-tag group of mercenaries and has not reached out since. Saying that their last job ended badly is an understatement. The reason why was a little bit his fault— _that_ , he will admit. However, a majority of the problem rested with a certain purple Twi’lek who deserved what he had coming to him. The Mandalorian has not lost any sleep over the outcome. Nor his decision to bail on the team.

But since Ran is the type to hold a grudge, he doubts the older man will be willing to help him out. On the other hand, it _has_ been several years. If Ran can hook him up with a well-paid job and is offered some of the profits, he just may overlook their past and work with him again. Besides, he doubts Ran is still in contact with their old team or other people they had operated with before.

In a matter of seconds, his gloved hands fly across his control panel. He has an old communication code that can contact Ran; he just hopes it works after all this time. In a few keystrokes he enters the code and is about to prepare a message when his fingers abruptly stop. Should he tell Talia what he is doing and who he is about to contact? After all, whatever happens on the ship does affect her.

But he tosses the idea aside. This is his ship, his life, his job—all of it is his business. Talia had promised not to judge, and he will hold her to that if she has a problem with it. So, with that thought in mind, he glances over his message before sending it:

> _Short on credits. Will do a job for decent price. Got anything for me? – Mando_

About an hour passes until he receives an answer. He is not sure why he feels surprised at how promptly Ran gets back with him, but that may be because he thought the communication code would get lost in the cyberworld.

> _Ran: I might. What ship you using? Just so I’ll know when you’re coming._
> 
> _M: Razor Crest. Where are you?_
> 
> _Ran: > > Sending coordinates < <_

Once he receives the location, he types it up into his nav-computer. He hums to himself when he sees that Ran is also in the Mid Rim, in the Primtara Sector. Fate just may be working with him this time.

Since he has flown past that area already, he flips a few switches and eases the _Crest_ out of hyperspace. Leaving the Corellian Run behind, his hands grip on the controls, and he turns the ship around. He figures they should reach Ran by mid-afternoon tomorrow.

While piloting the _Crest_ , he hears someone climbing up the ladder. He does not need to look behind him to know that it is Talia.

“We’re turning around,” she states, her elegant accent floating in the air.

“Yeah.”

He sees her stand next to him. As she leans forward, probably to glance at the nav-computer, he notices that Vandar is in her arms.

“Where’re we going?”

“Primtara Sector.”

“I’m not familiar with it.”

“Me neither.” He pauses, waiting for her to ask him why they are headed there. But Talia surprises him by saying nothing. He glances up at her and finds two pairs of brown eyes zeroed in on him. While the baby seems curious, his nanny watches him expectantly. So, the bounty hunter admits, “I need to do a job. For credits. I gotta support me and the kid, okay?” he defends before turning his attention back onto his flying.

“I told you I wouldn’t judge,” she whispers before retreating to her seat.

 _That’s easier said than done,_ he silently tells her.

“So, what’s in the Primtara Sector?” he hears her ask him as if they are having a pleasant conversation in Dewan Manor rather than onboard the _Crest_.

“An old contact of mine,” he reveals. “A guy named Ranzar Malk. He might be able to help me get a job.”

Behind him he hears Vandar giggle and clap his hands. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, the bounty hunter sees the baby’s eyes sparkle with enthusiasm as if he knows what the adults are talking about—which his guardian highly doubts.

“Don’t get too excited,” he tells Vandar while facing forward. “This might be a bad idea, okay?”

“Can you trust this Ranzar Malk?” Talia asks him, and he can practically hear the frown in her accent.

He scoffs, remembering his old partner. “I’ve never trusted him. Not really. Not even when I worked with him years ago. But I trust Ran’s greed,” he confides. “And that can work in my favor.”

“How long do you think this job will take?”

“Don’t know. Ran didn’t even say what it was.”

“What _did_ he say?”

“Just that he might have a job for me,” he replies, keeping his hold firm on the controls.

Silence engulfs the cockpit for a few minutes before Talia asks, “What would you like for me and Vandar to do while you’re working?”

He shrugs, not having thought about it until now. “Probably stay on the ship,” he suggests. “Or I’ll find a place where you two can lay low. I don’t want the kid attracting too much attention.”

“Very well. How long until we get there?”

“Probably tomorrow.”

Talia does not ask him anything more about the job or Ran. When he puts the _Crest_ on automatic pilot mode, he has her watch the controls so he can clean his weapons. The baby keeps him company as he breaks down his sniper rifle and wipes away the grime that had wormed its way into the grooves and cylinders.

“Okay, kid,” he says, “I don’t want you to give us trouble tomorrow, okay?”

“Do you think that will stop him?” he hears Talia call out from the cockpit. Amusement paints her voice, making him smirk.

“It’s worth a shot,” he replies, loud enough for her to hear. “Do you think you can wear him out so he’ll sleep most of tomorrow?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she calls out with a chuckle.


	17. What Prisoner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting for this chapter for MONTHS. I hope you all enjoy it! I will be posting up the next one on Sunday (9/27/20) or Monday (9/28/20).

Chapter XVII: What Prisoner?

_Location: Primtara Sector, Mid Rim_

“Heading out,” the bounty hunter gruffly announces, climbing down the ladder from the cockpit. He had just landed the _Crest_ in Ran’s space station. Since this morning, he has been glued to his pilot’s chair while Talia tired the baby out with games and mind exercises. The commotion actually sounded entertaining.

When he reaches the main compartment of his ship, he finds Talia standing in front of the closet that stores his arsenal. She is wearing a black tunic with a its long sleeves rolled up halfway and with a faded rainbow pattern sewn into her V-neck collar—which reveals slightly more cleavage than he is used to. Her Iron Heart necklace with its dark cord and bronze pendant daintily rests against her tanned skin. Down below she has donned a pair of black trousers with knee-high boots, a belt, and a holster, all leather and matching her tunic in color. Tucked inside her holster is her silver DE-10 blaster pistol, yet he finds it odd that she has decided to carry a weapon. He has no plans to invite Ran onboard the ship.

He notices that her hands and most of her wrists are wrapped in black leather; however, he can still see her Clan Kex ring, its midnight gold and amethyst stones twinkling at him. Her hair is loose, flowing down her back in dark brown waves, and he spies a couple of thin braids peeking out from its thick depths. She grabs a shawl from a nearby cargo box then wraps it around her upper shoulders. The material is a deep-red, boasting of expensive taste, and a silver flowered-pattern decorates the ends of the shawl. Talia’s entire outfit, simple yet almost professional, actually reminds him of a gunslinger or a smuggler. Either idea gives him a half-smile, and he dismisses each of them.

“Where’s the kid?” he asks.

His companion nods at his coffin-like sleeping compartment, which is closed. “In there,” she replies with a smirk. “He won’t be waking up for a while.”

“Good. Because if he does . . .”

“This’ll be educational.”

He nods, moving past her. “Which is why I want him out of the way,” he says.

“I was talking about me,” he hears her remark.

The correction jolts him to a stop. “What?” he asks, spinning around. He finds her looking at him with a steady gaze. “You’re staying here,” he tells her.

“Oh, come on, Ordo,” she pleads, her elegant accent sounding sweeter than normal. “Don’t deny me the chance to stretch my legs. Please?”

For a second, he wants to immediately refuse her. He is not going to some random cantina or to a friendly meeting. Ran is crooked and rude and suspicious, and Talia is fresh out of the Onderonian royal court. The two would be oil and water, and he cannot afford for her to say the wrong thing that just might cost him a well-paid job.

But when he looks at her, with her entreating eyes and suppressed, hopeful smile, he does not have it in him to deny her this. A woman being cooped up with him and a child on a small ship like the _Crest_ must be in need of a change of scenery. She has been a good companion to him and a helpful nanny to the baby. The least he can do is let her get off the _Crest_ , just for a little while.

 _I better not regret this,_ he thinks to himself.

“Fine. But I’ll do the talking, all right?” His confirmation sounds more like an order, but Talia does not seem to notice. She sends him a lovely smile, which he finds himself returning.

“How are you going to explain me?” she asks, walking with him to the ship’s side-door. It strikes him as odd that he posed the same question to her when the Minister of Trade had paid her an unexpected visit to her house.

“I’ll think of something,” he answers. He is about to open the door when he adds, “One last thing. You have to call me ‘Mando.’ No one knows much about me except that.”

“All right.”

“And you should probably change your name, too.”

She wrinkles her up-turned nose at this, confused. “What? Why?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to get wind that an Onderonian princess is traveling with me, okay?”

“I’m _not_ a princess,” she argues, crossing her arms.

“An Onderonian royal then,” he corrects. “We can’t afford that attention. Or give Ran ideas to ransom you.”

“I’m liking this guy already,” she mutters sarcastically. “Okay, if you say so. What name do you have in mind . . . Mando?”

Hearing her call him that feels foreign to him. Perhaps he is getting too comfortable to being referred to as ‘Ordo’—which is not exactly a good thing. But he pushes that thought aside and says, “Tal. Go by ‘Tal.’ It’s simple and discreet.” Since his friend christened him ‘Danaan Traxell’ for over a month, he supposes it is about time that he gives her a new name, too.

As Talia rolls the short alias in her mind, he watches her wrap her shawl around her head, her leather-covered hands moving gracefully. She then uses her shawl to hide half of her face, and it reminds him of Cholganna. For what seemed like days, her expression and identity had been concealed from him, and that had been frustrating. However, he was able to read her eyes well enough to now figure out what she is thinking, even when she dons a neutral mask.

“Okay,” she agrees, her accent muffled. “‘Tal’ it is then.”

He nods at her before pressing a button on the door panel. The side-hatch slides open, and the ramp lowers. He marches down the metal walkway with Talia trailing behind him.

The hangar is deep and smells of heated metal and motor oil. Machines hum, keeping a steady beat with an occasional clanging of hammers. The people he passes by have faces smudged with grease and soot. Their hands are covered with gloves, and he sees that their clothes are stained and have holes in them. They stare at him, disregarding Talia—probably because they have not seen silver armor like his before.

The two of them move past three busy workhands when a familiar, male voice calls across the hangar.

“Mando!”

Turning his head to the left, the bounty hunter finds Ran, his protruding gut leading him towards them. Dressed in brown and leather, Ran seems to have let himself go with his bushy gray hair and long beard. His light skin is wrinkled, and there are creases on his forehead and bags under his eyes. While a mischievous smirk plays on Ran’s chapped lips, his shifty brown gaze carefully surveys the bounty hunter and his new Mandalorian armor.

“Is that you under that bucket?” he teases before extending a hand to him.

“Ran,” the bounty hunter greets, accepting the hand. They shake like old friends, with his former partner being enthusiastic in the welcome gesture.

“I didn’t really know if I’d ever see you in these parts again. Good to see you,” the older man says. He slaps a hand on the Mandalorian’s back, which gives him a clear view of Talia. “And who’s this?” he asks, squinting his eyes at her. “You didn’t say you were bringing someone, Mando.”

“This is Tal,” the bounty hunter introduces.

When she gives Ran a nod, the latter looks at the bounty hunter suspiciously. He knows what his former partner is thinking: since when did the anti-social Mando start having friends? While working with Ran and their team, he had always been a loner, even when a certain female on their crew got too handsy with him. So, showing up here with Talia is without a doubt uncharacteristic of him—which means he needs to make up a good excuse as to why he has allowed another person to travel with him.

In a split second, his brain concocts a reasonable explanation. “We both got hired for a security job on Nar Shaddaa,” he mentions to Ran, remembering that Talia had once said she is familiar with the Smuggler’s Moon. “Pay was awful.”

Before he can add to the story, the other man remarks, “Uh-huh. So, why are you traveling with Mando here?”

“She was—”

“I was asking the lady,” Ran interrupts. Though he may have sounded playful to Talia’s ears, the bounty hunter detects a steel tone hidden in Ran’s words.

Not missing a beat, Talia replies in a slightly muffled voice, “A potential client saw us partnered on the job. They’re interested in our services. But that won’t be for about another week or so. I thought it’d be better if they found us together. My ship’s currently dry-docked,” she admits, shrugging her shoulders, “and Mando wanted to do another job. But I don’t need one.”

During her cover story, the bounty hunter notices that her dark eyes never leave Ran’s. She maintains a matter-of-fact tone, giving the older man enough background and detail on their so-called professional relationship. He is impressed she was able to move on where he had left off.

Ran nods at her then turns to him. “You? Working with a partner? Now I’ve seen everything!” He chuckles, his shifty eyes sparkling with amusement. “But you got something on him, don’t ya?” he asks Talia conspiratorially. “That’s probably the only reason why he’s letting you stick around.”

“You do know him, right?” she says, scrunching her dark brows good-humoredly. “Do you think I’d want to be hanging around him unless something linked us? Let’s just say that I can neither confirm nor deny that assumption.”

The bluff—which leans very close to the truth—tickles Ran, who laughs even louder than before. There is a wheeziness in his merriment, and the bounty hunter will not be surprised if Ran starts coughing.

“I like her,” he gasps out before clearing his throat. “Rich accent you have there, Tal. But why the scarf?” He points at her shawl. “Hiding like him?”

His tone is no longer cheerful and is now laced with distrust. The abrupt change is something Ran is known for, so he can catch newcomers off-guard with his “mood-swing.” The Mandalorian had been on the receiving end of this tactic when he first started working with Ran, and he hopes Talia is not jarred by it.

 _Well, she isn’t,_ he thinks when she responds by pulling down her shawl from her head and face so Ran can see her.

As she settles the deep-red material on her shoulders, the shaggy-haired man blinks at her. He releases a low whistle, impressed by her pretty face, tanned skin, and dark features. With a smirk, he begins to walk away and throws over his shoulder to her, “Now I can see why he keeps you around.”

The Mandalorian sends a nod of approval at his friend before following Ran. In a couple of strides, he falls into step with him while Talia brings up the rear.

“This job is just for me,” he reminds Ran. “Tal’s just here for the ride. But she’s fairly handy with a blaster.”

“Amongst other things I’m sure,” the older man whispers with a wink. In a louder voice, he remarks, “You know, to be honest I was a little surprised when you reached out to me.” He stops walking and turns to the bounty hunter. “You know, ’cuz I hear things. Like maybe things between you and the Guild aren’t . . . aren’t working out.”

Ran almost sounds concerned about him, even a little curious, too. But the Mandalorian would not put it past Ran to feel slightly pleased about his bumpy partnership with the Guild. After all, that was the first place he fled to after leaving Ran and their crew.

“I’ll be fine,” he answers, his gravelly voice neutral.

“Oh, okay.” Ran lifts up his hands and gestures widely around him. “You know the policy: no questions. And you—” He pats the bounty hunter’s left shoulder. “—you’re welcome back here anytime.”

“Hey, boss!” a technician calls out from the walkway above them. “You got a minute?”

“Sure thing!” Ran excuses himself from the two companions. “Be right back.”

With his gut leading him, the older man leaves then climbs up a flight of metal stairs to where the techie is. The bounty hunter can feel Talia station herself beside him as both of them watch Ran cling to the thin railing while huffing up the numerous steps.

“Charming,” he hears her flatly comment.

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

“Do you think he believes you?”

“Yes and no,” he admits, glancing at her. “But he’ll believe it for now.”

She sighs. “I guess that’s better than nothing.”

“Hey, you two!” Ran shouts from the raised walkway in front of them. Waving a hand, he adds, “Come on up!”

While Talia nods at Ran, the bounty hunter simply strides over to the stairs. So far, things are going well. His ex-associate is somewhat behaving himself, and his fellow Mando has been able to hold her own. As he side-steps cargo boxes and tools scattered across the dirty floor, he hopes that whatever job Ran has in store for him will not take weeks. He doubts he can keep the baby sleeping on the _Crest_ a secret for that long. Maybe he will have to relocate Vandar and Talia somewhere else in the meantime.

When he and his companion meet with Ran, the latter has just finished clearing things up with his techie. The former partners begin strolling on the raised walkway with the _Crest_ sitting on their right and with Talia trailing after them. Though she maintains a respectable distance away from them, the bounty hunter notes that it is an act just to make it look like she is giving them privacy. In reality, she is still close enough to be able to hear what they are saying.

“So, what’s the job?” he asks Ran conversationally.

“One of our associates ran afoul of some competitors and got himself caught.” The news surprises the Mandalorian. He glances at Ran, thinking that time and old age has made him sloppy in the hiring department. “So, I’m putting together a crew to spring him,” the bearded man continues. “It’s a five-person job. I got four. All I need is the ride.”

Ran stops moving and turns to the bounty hunter, who then leans his back against the walkway’s thin railing. From the looks of the hangar, and from Ran’s reputation, he knows that his ex-associate has enough ships to pull off a job like this, which makes him wonder what Ran is waiting for.

The phrase, “And you brought it,” rumbles in the Mandalorian’s ears, bouncing off the inside of his Beskar helmet. Ran’s crafty eyes shift behind him, focusing on the _Crest_. The subtle movement is a blow to the stomach, and the Mandalorian finds himself also looking at his beloved ship. Against his will, his brain puts the pieces together.

“The ship wasn’t part of the deal,” he states, forcing himself from biting Ran’s head off for this unexpected ploy. They both move towards the railing so they can examine the _Crest_ better. Ran is on his right, and out of the corner of his eye the bounty hunter can see Talia, standing a few yards behind his ex-partner, also looking in the same direction they are.

“Yeah, the _Crest_ is the only reason why I let you back in here,” he hears Ran mention with the smallest hint of bitterness in his voice.

The revelation forces the Mandalorian to tear his eyes away from his ship and focus on Ran instead. If glares could kill, the older man would be dead right now. The years have not softened him, nor his treacherous backside. The Mandalorian can feel his gut twist, warning him to just take Talia and the _Crest_ and leave Ran as fast as he can. But he knows that his former partner and his own need for credits have trapped him.

“What’s the look?” Ran throws at his expressionless helmet with a faux-innocent face. He steps closer to him and mocks, “Is that gratitude?” Tickled by his own misinterpretation, Ran lets out a wheezy laugh, and the bounty hunter has to force himself not to strangle the worthless breath out of the unarmed man. As Ran waltzes past him, he says, “Ah-huh. I think it is.”

The crooked man’s footsteps are merely background noise while the bounty hunter stays where he is, his boots planted to the walkway. Instinct tells him that coming here is starting to look like a mistake. Again, it warns him not to trust Ran and to just high-tail out of this unfriendly space station.

 _“I have a bad feeling about this,”_ he hears Talia murmur to him in Mando’a. He had not noticed that she closed the distance between them. When he says nothing to her remark, she continues, _“Ran, this job he has, the timing. Seems too good to be true to me.”_

Despite the fact that her confession matches his own apprehension, he tilts his head at her and replies in their culture’s dialect, _“I thought you believed in Fate.”_ When Talia sends him a look that says, ‘This isn’t Fate,’ he straightens his shoulders and firmly states, _“I can’t get out of it, Talia. If that’s what you’re getting at.”_

 _“Can’t you?”_ she whispers, her eyes searching his helmet. _“You didn’t sign a contract.”_

 _“It doesn’t work like that,”_ he snaps. _“Ran telling me what he’s planning on this job is his way of knowing that I’m not going to back down from it.”_

Talia opens her mouth to protest, but she presses her pink lips together. With a nod, she sighs, _“All right then.”_

Before he can even feel relieved that she has chosen not to argue with him further, they both hear Ran calling out to him: “Hey, Mando! You coming? Or do you have to consult with your new missus?”

“New what?” she exclaims, her brows scrunched together in confusion.

“It’s nothing,” he says, silently cursing Ran.

Quickly, he turns around and marches after that cheeky, outspoken man. The flapping of his gray cloak matches the sound of Talia’s boots following him. He hopes Ran will stop throwing jabs about their past together as mercs so she will not hear them. There are things he has done that he knows she will not approve of.

They soon join Ran who leads them back onto the ground floor of the station. No one says anything, but the hangar is far from quiet. Electric saws buzz loudly as their wielders cut metal. Voices from the hired hands echo off the cold walls. He leaves his ship behind him as he walks through the hangar beside Ran who seems to be heading towards a man fiddling with something near a worktable.

“Hey, Mayfeld!” Ran calls out to a bald-headed humanoid who has his back to them.

“Yeah?” this Mayfeld guy replies, turning around.

As the stranger preps the blaster pistol in his hand, the Mandalorian assesses him in less than a few seconds. The bald Mayfeld stands around his height and is fair-skinned with orangey-red stubble on his face and matching colored eyebrows. His round jaw and simple profile are easily forgettable, but his eyes are heated like blue fire as he surveys the Mandalorian.

While Ran and most of his employees are covered in layers of clothing to keep warm on the space station, Mayfeld is only wearing a long-sleeved tunic, trousers, and boots. The bounty hunter figures that the new guy is probably hot-blooded, and his assumption becomes more likely when he sees a coat of sweat on Mayfeld’s head, shimmering in the light like a halo. The other man’s form-fitting tunic displays his muscle-toned arms, and the rest of his body boasts of athleticism. Brown leather shoulder holsters are strapped to Mayfeld who already has each of them filled with a pistol.

“This is Mando,” Ran introduces him. “The guy I was telling you about. We used to do jobs way back when. And this,” he adds, gesturing to Talia, “is his associate, Tal.”

As Mayfeld walks closer to the group, he seems unimpressed with who the bounty hunter is. But when his eyes land on Talia, they eat her up like a hungry Kath hound. Mayfeld quickly returns his attention back onto the bounty hunter, gestures to him, and asks, “This is the guy?”

“Yeah,” Ran says fondly. “We were all young, trying to make a name for ourselves.”

While he laughs at the memories, the bounty hunter lowers his gaze from the men, quietly hoping Ran will not share any stories right in front of Talia. Yet even _he_ knows that wish is futile.

“But running with a Mandalorian,” his ex-partner continues, pointing to him as if he was a prize, “that was . . . that brought us some reputation.”

Mayfeld actually looks intrigued and sets a foot on a box. Leaning an arm on his raised knee, he glances curiously at the bounty hunter and queries, “Oh, yeah? What did he get out of it?”

The question brings back old memories for the Mandalorian, and he is ashamed of the answer he had given to Ran back then. He was immature and reckless and full of himself. But he knew he needed to sharpen his skills, with tactics and especially with his marksmanship.

Laughing, Ran says, “I asked him that one time. You remember what you said, Mando?” Of course, the bounty hunter answers the query with silence, which does not stop Ran from revealing to Mayfeld, “Target practice.”

The Mandalorian briefly closes his eyes, thankful his helmet is covering his face, as Ran wheezes out another round of laughter. He hears Mayfeld dramatically release air from his mouth like a waterspout, and Ran has the nerve to repeat his old answer. Beside him, the Mandalorian can feel Talia’s body stiffen, and he wishes his sharp senses were dull so he could be oblivious to her reaction. He is sure she is doubting her decision to travel with a man who had seen people as objects to help him master his sharpshooting skills rather than living, breathing souls with families and homes.

When he opens his eyes again, he finds Ran looking at him. “Man,” he says, “we did some crazy stuff, didn’t we?” He releases another wheezy laugh, and the bounty hunter hopes Ran chokes on his next breath.

“That was a long time ago,” he explains, not sure who he is trying to convince, himself, Talia, or the other two men. The back of his neck heats up, and he fights the urge to shift his feet.

After what feels like an hour, Ran finally catches his breath and sighs. He must have figured out that the Mandalorian is not finding this topic as humorous as he is, so he switches tones and seriously says, “Well. Well, I don’t go out anymore, you understand? So, uh, Mayfeld here—” He points to the man in question. “—is gonna run point on this job.”

Like a childish teenager, Mayfeld mockingly waves at him.

“Tal, here,” Ran informs his new point-man, “isn’t part of the deal. Mando says she’s just an observer. You know, here for the ride ’cuz she’s working with him on something else later on.”

At the reminder of Talia’s presence, Mayfeld fixes his heated eyes on her again. Giving her a wolfish grin, he remarks, “I won’t mind if she wants to get a little handsy, boss. You look too pretty to get your hands dirty in this business, darling.”

While the Mandalorian forces himself not to reach for his holstered pistol, Talia simply gives Mayfeld an amused smile. “Looks can be deceiving,” she tells him, her elegant accent thicker than normal.

The bounty hunter feels his jaw drop. What in the name of Mandalore was _that_? Flirting?

To his annoyance, Mayfeld chuckles at her comment, and is that a playful wink that Talia just sends to that skinny, balding merc?

“Okay, focus,” Ran interrupts, but the bounty hunter is unsure of whom he is talking to, him or Mayfeld. “As I was saying, Mando: he’s gonna run point today. If he says it,” the older man emphasizes, gesturing to Mayfeld, “it’s like it’s coming from me. You good with that?”

 _No,_ he wants to exclaim but bites his tongue. It does not matter if his gut had been telling him that this job seems shady: his brain is screaming at him that Mayfeld is a haughty, good-for-nothing weasel. Therefore, saying that he does not like him is the understatement of the day. But his pride and his reputation of being immune to verbal jabs, mockery, and criticism of any kind help him rein in his initial response.

Eyeing the new point-man, who seems to be insulted by his delayed answer, the bounty hunter flatly replies, “You tell me.”

He gets a somewhat satisfying response. Mayfeld’s arrogant expression morphs into suspicion and dislike, and his fiery blue eyes darken with offense. Ran, on the other hand, just laughs at the cold understanding that the Mandalorian had formed between himself and Mayfeld.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” Ran says, pointing to him.

“Yeah, well. Things have changed around here,” Mayfeld states. He glares at the bounty hunter then walks away from them, seeming to forget altogether about his flirting with Talia.

With a fond smile, Ran reveals to him, “Yeah, well, Mayfeld—he’s one of the best trigger-men I’ve ever seen. Former Imperial sharpshooter.”

Not being able to help himself, the Mandalorian coolly retorts, “That’s not saying much.”

At this, Mayfeld turns around and snaps, “I wasn’t a stormtrooper, wise—” He cuts himself off when he sees Talia crossing her arms at him, clearly not appreciating the direction where his mouth is going. So, Mayfeld clears his throat and lamely finishes, “Wise guy.”

Much to the bounty hunter’s surprise, Talia nods her thanks to Mayfeld and says to _him_ , “Oh, come now, Mando. I’ve ran into some Imperials with impressive marksmanship. I’m sure Mayfeld _is_ one of the best.”

Her words, sultry and sincere, seem to calm down the other man, but the three of them watch as he still saunters off towards the _Crest_ like a sulky teenager. Though, the bounty hunter admits that Mayfeld’s shoulders do look a little straighter because of Talia’s compliment. However, his implied insult has already done its damage, and he does not feel sorry for it. Not one bit.

Ran turns to him and amusingly murmurs, “Don’t take long, does it?”, before following his new favorite.

Giving the bearded man a head-start, the Mandalorian slowly trails behind him with Talia. They take two steps in silence until she tells him in Mando’a, _“I figured you’d have more tact than that.”_

 _“What do you mean?”_ he asks, wincing at how prickly he sounds.

 _“You shouldn’t have been so rude to the guy in charge,”_ she replies. _“He dislikes you even more for that snide comment.”_

The last thing he wants to do is argue over Mayfeld, so he keeps silent and picks up the pace. This day better not get any worse.

Ran and the bald jerk are muttering together, probably discussing the plan for the upcoming job. They shut their mouths when he and Talia get closer. Breaking away from Ran, Mayfeld leads them towards the _Crest_. The Mandalorian is at the end of the long row they form, with Talia on his left, then Mayfeld, and Ran at the other end.

“ _Razor Crest_?” the former Imperial declares. “I can’t believe that thing can fly. Looks like a Canto Bight slot machine,” he snickers, the insult making the bounty hunter want to knock him to the floor. Before he can say anything, Mayfeld points to his left. “All right, the good-looking fellow there with the horns—that’s Burg.”

Carrying a heavy cargo box, which he carelessly drops with a loud clang, is a very tall and bulky-looking Devaronian. Like most of his species, Burg has two black horns protruding from his head and pointy ears. His skin is red, which reminds the Mandalorian of a severe sunburn. Decorating his face are crisscrossing scars that still look like fresh cuts because they gleam blood-red in the lights. Burg is clad in thick leather clothes and boots and has two blasters strapped to him.

“This may surprise you,” Mayfeld adds sarcastically, “but he’s our muscle.”

Burg marches over to them. Ignoring Talia completely, he stands right in front of the bounty hunter, grunting at his Beskar helmet. Though he feels Talia tense up beside him, he does not move at the Devaronian’s intrusion of his personal space. As a way to show that he will _not_ be intimidated, the bounty hunter tilts his head up so he can be at eye-level with Burg as much as he can. The horned-alien studies him critically with his blue eyes, but they seem vacant and unintelligent to him. Burg releases a grunt before stalking around him, still examining him.

“So, this is a Mandalorian,” he hears his deep voice jeer with indifference. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Burg step in between Mayfeld and Ran. He adds, “I thought they’d be bigger.”

The criticism earns an amused scoff from Mayfeld as the Devaronian stomps away. Beside him, the bounty hunter senses Talia stiffen even more, clearly insulted by the remark, just like he is. Thank Mandalore that she holds her tongue!

Mayfeld walks forward a little and points to a dark figure ahead of them. “Droid’s name is ZERO.”

The machine stiffly turns its mechanical body. The Mandalorian notes that this ZERO is a two-legged droid with dark gray plating. There are two large, silver-colored photoreceptors atop its head that look like bug-eyes to him, but they are cold and lifeless. ZERO, he notes, is carrying an EE-3 carbine rifle and is wearing several equipment pouches strapped to its slim torso.

As the droid creaks its way over to them, it jerks its head up then down, surveying both him and Talia. The bounty hunter feels his jaw clench. He still mistrusts droids, but he hates them even more if they are allowed to wield blasters and are programmed to kill. Talia’s protocol droid, RUBY, is much friendlier—not to mention, completely harmless. He finds himself realizing that he would trade him for ZERO without a second’s hesitation.

Not pleased that this droid will be joining them on the job, he gruffly points out to Ran, “I thought you said you had four.”

From behind, he hears a voice, feminine and amused, call out: “He does.”

Recognizing who that breathy voice belongs to, the bounty hunter turns himself around. He learned years ago never to keep his back exposed to a certain, female Twi’lek. To his utter disappointment, she appears, twisting a small vibroblade around her slim fingers. A half-smile plays on her lips as she says to him, “Hello, Mando.”

“Xi’an,” he coolly greets, familiarizing himself with her lavender skin and blood-red lips. Her long head-tails sway behind her petite and athletic figure. As she gets closer, he is reminded that she stands around five-foot-five, an inch taller than Talia.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand,” she says to him, her blue eyes looking icy and merciless as always.

Like lightning, Xi’an jumps in front of him and raises her blade below his helmet. Since he had been expecting this, he does not even flinch. Typical Xi’an, trying to get under his skin—or more accurately, under his armor.

“Nice to see you, too,” he answers nonchalantly.

The Twi’lek squeals with twisted delight while, behind him, he can hear Ran release a wheezy laugh. He has too clear of a view of Xi’an’s fang-like teeth, all sharp and shiny, reminding him of her sadistic grin, a trademark that he wishes he could forget.

“I’ve missed you,” she pouts, slowly lowering her knife. Still standing close to him, she uses her blade to tap at his chest-plate, but she keeps her eyes focused on his visor. “This is shiny. You wear it well,” she teases with a wicked smile.

“Do we need to leave the room or something?” he hears Mayfeld ask.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one who thought that,” Talia says behind him.

Mayfeld’s annoying voice is coated with flirtation when he replies, “Well, great minds think alike.”

At Talia’s interruption, Xi’an pulls away from the Mandalorian and looks at his companion for the first time. He feels his muscles tense as she asks, “Who’s this?” The deadly Twi’lek stalks over to Talia, scowling as she assesses her. To Ran, she accuses, “You didn’t say we needed another person.”

“We don’t,” the bearded man reveals as the Mandalorian turns around, keeping an eye on his former associate.

Glaring at Talia, who has donned a neutral face, Xi’an points to her with her vibroblade and demands, “Then who’s _this_?”

In a split second, he watches her move in front of Talia and raise her blade, trying to repeat what she did to him. But instead of staying still, Talia blocks Xi’an’s forearm with her own. To the bounty hunter’s horror, Talia has managed to retrieve, somewhere from her belt, her own vibrodagger with her free hand and is now holding it to Xi’an’s neck.

The Twi’lek’s icy blue eyes widen, and she hisses at Talia before backing away. As she does this, the bounty hunter takes a step closer to his friend, ready to intervene if the need arises. Xi’an retreats from Talia, who stashes her own blade back onto her belt.

Mayfeld, still chuckling at the showdown they all witnessed, says to the Twi’lek, “Xi’an, meet Tal. She’s Mando’s associate.”

At this, she snaps her head in the bounty hunter’s direction and glares daggers at him. “Is _she_ the best you can do?” Xi’an exclaims angrily.

“Hold up,” Mayfeld interrupts, his forehead wrinkled. “What exactly am I missing here?”

The Mandalorian feels Talia move to his other side, but she stands a little bit behind him, as if using him and his armor as a shield. Something tells him that her dark eyes are fused with Xi’an’s because the latter is staring intently at something—or someone—past him.

Ran takes this moment to answer Mayfeld’s question: “Poor Xi’an’s been a little heartbroken since Mando left our group.”

“Aww,” the former Imperial mocks, turning to Xi’an. “You gonna be okay, sweetheart?” He then releases a laugh, which sobers up the Twi’lek. She never did like being on the receiving end of any kind of teasing—only if _she_ initiates it.

Having recovered herself, she replies, “Oh, I’m all business now.” She points her blade back in the bounty hunter’s face. “Learned from the best.” After she drops her arm, she sends Talia a threatening look.

“All right, lovebirds,” Ran interjects, waving at him and Xi’an as if that will clear up the baggage between them. “Break it up ’till you get on the ship. Right now, we have things to go over.” He gestures for everyone to follow him.

As the older man leads them closer to the _Crest_ , Xi’an sends the Mandalorian a wink. But it is more like a promise. Or more specific, a warning that they are not done yet. And, not being able to help herself, she sends Talia another scowl.

“And here I thought Dacob was the jealous type,” he hears his friend mutter under her breath.

He stays where he is, slightly shaking his head. But he does not have time to respond because Burg appears in his line of sight. The Devaronian walks right in front of him again. Like before, the Mandalorian tilts his chin up, not showing any signs of being intimidated. Breathing heavily, Burg lets out a grunt.

“Tiny,” he taunts at him before a deep laugh rumbles from his bulky chest. He then marches away to join the crew.

As the bounty hunter watches the mercenaries retreat, Talia murmurs to him in Mando’a: _“Meathead, I bet. Just like most muscle.”_

Ignoring the remark, he turns to her, saying, _“You shouldn’t have done that with her.”_

 _“Why not?”_ she asks, placing her leather-covered hands on her hips. _“Just because you let her do that with you doesn’t meant she can—_

 _“That’s not the point,”_ he almost hisses. _“She now sees you as a threat.”_

_“And you’re not?”_

_“It was different with me. She was testing me.”_

Talia releases an unladylike snort, which surprises him for a moment since that seems out of character for her. _“It’s not like she was asking me to be bosom friends,”_ she argues.

 _“It wasn’t the same kind of test. If you did nothing,”_ he explains, _“she wouldn’t hate you as much as she does now.”_

_“I can handle hate.”_

_“But with her, hate and killing go hand-in-hand.”_ He sighs, hoping his fellow Mando will understand what he is getting at. _“And Xi’an thrives on killing, Tal.”_

Despite the warning he gave her, he is confused when a smile plays on Talia’s dark pink lips.

 _“What?”_ he asks, continuing to speak in Mando’a. He does not even bother to hide the confusion in his voice.

 _“That’s the first time_ you _called me ‘Tal.’ Without putting on an act,”_ she clarifies. _“I actually like it.”_

He blinks at her. _“Seriously?”_

“Hey, beautiful!” Mayfeld interrupts their private chat. “Let your Mando go so we can walk through the plan.”

The bounty hunter is not sure whether to curse the former Imperial for budding in or to thank him. There was a sparkle of playfulness in Talia’s eyes that he has not seen directed at him before, and he is not sure if he wants to address that or not. Either now or later on. So, he shelves this topic and joins the crew.

The rag-tag group has gathered beside the _Crest_ , and he is irked to discover that ZERO is already in the cockpit of his ship. The Mandalorian glances up at the droid, hating the idea of having a programed killing machine wandering in _his_ ship, running its metal fingers across _his_ controls, sitting in _his_ chair. He just hopes that the baby really is asleep and will continue to be like that for a while, just as Talia said he should be.

He stands across from Mayfeld who is pressing buttons on a hologram projector. On the point-man’s right side is Xi’an who is standing in front of Burg. Talia positions herself on the bounty hunter’s left with Ran on her other side.

“So, the package is being moved on a fortified transport ship,” Mayfeld explains to him. He presses another button on the holo-projector which displays the ship in question. “Now, we got a limited window to board, find our friend,” he lists off, “and get him out of there before they make their jump.”

Immediately recognizing the long transport vessel, the Mandalorian realizes that they will be rescuing not just any ordinary prisoner but one incarcerated by the current government. While his gut churns at this, he silently fumes, _What the heck, Ran? Are you trying to get us killed? What prisoner is worth all this?_

Keeping his tone neutral, he states, “That’s a New Republic prison ship.” As he glances at Ran, he feels Talia tense up beside him. Even though he is more than aware that she already disapproves of the job, he clarifies with his former partner: “Your man wasn’t taken by a rival syndicate. He was arrested.”

“So what?” he hears Mayfeld criticize.

“A job is a job,” Ran says, looking at the bounty hunter as if he asking him, ‘Since when did you care?’

“That’s a max-security transport,” he bluntly points out. “And I’m not looking for that kind of heat.”

“Well, neither are we,” Ran agrees, his crafty brown eyes hardening a little. “So just don’t mess up.”

“The good news for you,” Xi’an purrs, having slithered her way over to him while he was distracted, “is the ship is manned by droids.” She points her small vibroblade at him and taunts, “Still hate the machines, Mando?” Before she leaves, she sends Talia a haughty look, saying that she knows more about him than his new companion does—which is an incorrect assumption.

The bounty hunter shifts his gaze away from the lavender-skinned Twi’lek and focuses on the approaching ZERO. The droid strides down the side ramp of the _Crest_ to join the team. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Talia peering up at him. Though her face is expressionless, her gaze is communicating to him that they need to talk. Soon.

While Xi’an and Burg disappear inside the _Crest_ , ZERO announces matter-of-factually, “Despite recent modifications, this ship is still quite a mess.” It points to the parked vessel—as if they need to be reminded of which ship it is referring to. “The power lines are leaking, the navigation is intermittent, and the hyperdrive is only operation at 63.3% efficiency.” ZERO turns to Ran, saying, “We have much better ships. Why are we using this one?”

“Because the _Razor Crest_ is off the old Imperial _and_ the New Republic grid,” the bearded man explains. “It’s a ghost.”

“Yeah,” Mayfeld agrees, calling everyone’s attention back to him. “And we need a ship that can get close enough to jam New Republic code. So . . .” He pushes another button on the projector which shows them a red zigzagged line that represents a traveling route. “When we drop out of hyperspace here, we immediately bank into this kind of attitude. We should be right in their blind spot.” Turning to the bounty hunter, he adds, “Which will give us just enough time for _your_ ship to scramble our signal.”

“It’s ambitious,” Talia murmurs with disapproval.

The Mandalorian, who had been studying the plan, looks at Mayfeld and declares, “It’s not possible. Even for the _Crest_.” After all, _he_ knows his ship’s limits.

“That’s why he’s flying,” Ran announces, jerking his head at ZERO.

Both the Mandalorian and the droid look at each other, but the former tears his glare away from the latter and fixes his eyes on Ran. He tilts his head at him, soundlessly telling him, ‘Come on. You’ve got to be kidding me.’ Much to his annoyance, the older man laughs at his silent objection.

“Mando, I know you’re a pretty good pilot,” Ran replies, “but we need you on the trigger. Not on the wheel.”

“Don’t worry, Mandalorian,” ZERO states in its vibrating, mechanical voice. “My response time is quicker than organics.” It raises its hand, revealing its computer interface appendage before retracting it. “And I’m smarter, too,” it boasts while tapping its metal head with the same hand.

As if sensing his displeasure, Ran pats ZERO’s chest, which encourages the arrogant droid to return to the ship. Thankfully, it is able to process the hint and leaves the bounty hunter with Talia, Ran, and Mayfeld.

“Forgive the programming,” his former associate says to him. “He’s a little rough around the edges. But he is the best.”

Pointing to ZERO, he asks, “How can you trust it?”

Side-stepping around Talia, Ran slaps him on the shoulder, leans in close, and whispers, “You know me, Man. I don’t trust anybody.”

“I need a moment,” the bounty hunter blurts out. He frees himself from Ran and walks away, calling over his shoulder, “Tal!”

He marches to the other side of the _Crest_ , glad the ship is able to pose as a metal barrier for him. When he stops and turns around, Talia does not waste a moment to share her thoughts. Speaking in Mando’a, she asks, _“You’re not seriously considering this, are you?”_

Even though he is not surprised by her reaction, he finds himself frowning at her. _“You promised not to judge,”_ he reminds her as he crosses his arms.

Clearly ignoring him, she continues, _“I didn’t fight the Empire for twenty-five years just so the New Republic’s judicial system can be compromised by a gang of cold-blooded mercs.”_

 _“I don’t like this anymore than you do,”_ he argues, his gravelly voice sharp. _“But I can’t walk out now. It’s too late.”_

Talia huffs at his response. _“I have a_ very _bad feeling about this. I can’t, I can’t explain it. It’s just . . .”_ She runs her teeth over her bottom lip. _“I think there’s something they’re not telling you.”_

Touched by her concern for his well-being, he assures her, _“I’ll be fine. You stay here—”_

 _“Are you kidding me?”_ she snaps. _“I’m going with you.”_

_“I don’t think so. What about the kid?”_

_“He’ll be asleep for hours. Besides, do you want to explain him when they see us move him from where he’s sleeping?”_ Her question stumps him. When he says nothing, she gives him a small smirk. _“Yeah, I thought so.”_

He stares at her, trying to weigh out all his options. As he thinks about it, he does not know which one is worse: to leave her and Vandar with Ran on the station or to let them join the crew for the ride. His gut tells him that they would be safer with him, but Ran would treat them relatively well if they stay here, right? He inwardly shakes his head.

 _I’m following my gut,_ he decides, hoping the baby will sleep through the entire operation. For both of his guardians’ sakes.

 _“They’re not going to like it that you’re coming,”_ he tells Talia in Mando’a.

_“Then make them see that I need to.”_

_“And_ _how am I supposed to do that?”_ he throws at her.

She shrugs her shoulders at him. _“This is your world,_ Mando _. Think of something. You said I needed to let you do the talking.”_

Feeling slightly annoyed at her for tossing his own words back at him, the bounty hunter stalks over to Ran who is chatting quietly with Mayfeld. They end their private discussion when he and Talia approach them.

“Tal’s coming,” he announces in his no-nonsense voice. “We need someone to stay on the ship with the droid. As backup.”

Ran eyes him shrewdly, crossing his arms. “She’s not getting a cut.”

At this, Talia gestures to her expensive shawl wrapped around her upper shoulders. The Mandalorian notices that she is using the hand that has her Clan Kex ring on it. It sparkles at her deliberate movement as she rhetorically asks, “Does it look like I’m in dire need of credits?”

“I’d say you’re in need of more satisfying male company,” Mayfeld flirts. When she sends him a saucy smile, his eyes become heated like blue fire. “Let her come, Ran,” he petitions. “She’ll improve the crew’s look.”

For a moment, the bearded man says nothing. He then turns to the bounty hunter, admitting, “I figured you weren’t going to let a partner connected to a future payday out of your sight anyways. But nothing changes, Mayfeld. Okay?”

The point-man salutes him and declares, “Roger,” before scurrying up the _Crest_ ’s side-ramp like the sniveling weasel he is.

Walking side-by-side, the Mandalorian and Talia follow him. As they stride up the ramp themselves, he can hear Ran call out behind him, “Just like the good old days, Mando. Huh?”

When he reaches the ship’s main compartment, he turns around and sees Ran staring at him with his arms open. In response, he reaches for the door panel and commands it to close the side-hatch.

 _“Do I want to know what he means by that?”_ he hears Talia wonder aloud in Mando’a. The door seals shut in front of them.

_“No.”_

He feels the _Crest_ retreat from the space station and fly off. With his back to the side-hatch he makes a mental note as to who is sitting where. Talia tries to maneuver her way closer to the compartment where the baby is, but Burg’s pacing prevents her from doing so. In the end, she stations herself atop her black footlocker and leans her back against the wall. Mayfeld is sitting on top of a cargo box right across from her. Lounging like the lazy stormtrooper he is, he attempts to coax her to open up more about herself. And off to the side is Xi’an showing off with one of her many daggers, flipping the weapon across her fingers at lightning-speed. Her eyes occasionally veer Talia’s way.

For a few minutes, the Mandalorian just stands where he is, watching the red-skinned Devaronian march across the ship. It feels unnatural to be in the main compartment of the _Crest_ without being the one responsible for flying it. He does not trust ZERO and wants to keep a personal eye on it, but he is uncomfortable with the idea of leaving Talia alone with this motley crew.

In the end, the droid’s invasion of his privacy wins out, and he walks over to the ladder leading to the cockpit. Moving past Talia, he says to her in Mando’a, _“I’ll be right back.”_

Quickly climbing the ladder, he enters the cockpit. The droid must have heard him because it turns its stiff body around. “Hello, Mandalorian. I am preparing the _Razor Crest_ for our mission.”

“Where are we going?” he demands. “Ran didn’t say.”

ZERO faces the front again, replying, “The Lambda Sector. The northern part of the Lambda Sector to be more precise.” Silence settles between them before ZERO announces, “Calculations complete. Jumping to hyperspace . . .”

At this, the bounty hunter grips the back of the left passenger seat to steady himself; he hopes Talia is handling herself wisely down below.

“Now!” ZERO declares, plunging the ship into hyperspace. “You’re free to join the others,” it says to him, as if he needs the machine’s permission to do anything on _his_ ship. “I will handle it from here.”

Knowing that there is nothing else for him to do at the moment, the Mandalorian returns to the main compartment. He jumps down the ladder, landing solidly on his feet. When he turns around, he sees that Burg has actually managed to open up his arsenal. A beefy red hand is about to reach for a blaster—the one that Rami Nader had gifted him—so the Mandalorian presses a button on his left gauntlet.

When the arsenal’s doors close, Burg grunts in frustration and angrily slams his hands against them. With a grunt, the large Devaronian spins around and glares at him. He meets his vacant blue gaze. Out of defiance, Burg moves and is about to press a button on another panel near the bounty hunter’s sleeping compartment—which is the same one that the baby is slumbering in. But he grabs the alien’s wrist, stopping him from even touching the panel.

Naturally, Burg fumes at this. In response, he gets right in the Mandalorian’s face and growls at him. The latter stands his ground; he will protect his innocent child at any cost, especially from the likes of a bullying Devaronian.

“Hey, hey, hey!” he hears Mayfeld call out to them, a weak attempt to calm down both males before things escalate. The bounty hunter and Burg circle one another in a staring competition as Mayfeld says, “Okay, okay, I get it. I’m a little particular about my personal space, too.”

Relief fills the Mandalorian because he is now standing with his sleeping compartment directly behind him, protecting its precious cargo. Even though Burg is just two feet away from him, he is glad he can be a form of protection between the hired muscle and Vandar.

“Hey, is he like that with you about his stuff?” Mayfeld asks Talia, gesturing to him.

“What do you think?” she replies, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Let’s just do this job,” the bald merc says to the bounty hunter. “We get in, we get out, and you don’t have to see our faces anymore.”

 _I don’t like seeing them now,_ he silently complains.

“Someone tell me why we even need a Mandalorian,” Burg retorts, glaring at the armored man.

“Well, apparently,” Mayfeld answers, “they’re the greatest warriors in the galaxy. So, they say.”

“Then why are they all dead?” Burg taunts. His deep laughter is soon joined by the other two mercenaries.

Clenching his jaw, the bounty hunter restrains himself from yanking out his blaster and permanently shutting up the dull Devaronian. He glances at Talia, wondering if she was bothered by the sneer as much as he is. He is not sure whether to feel pride or fear when he sees her staring coldly at Burg, her dark eyes glinting gold from the ship’s lights.

“Don’t you know?” she sharply asks Burg. The laughter subsides at her biting tone, and everyone focuses on her. “Mandalorians were too much of a threat to the Empire to be kept alive. Numbers and firepower overwhelm even the greatest of warriors. It’s a coward’s method,” she all but spits out. “It may come as a surprise to you, Burg, that the Mandalorians weren’t the only people in the galaxy to be slaughtered. And all because the Empire deemed them dangerous.”

When she drops her piercing gaze to the floor, the bounty hunter has half a mind to congratulate her for the convicting speech while the other half wants to ask her what other race had been annihilated by the former regime. He figures she must be referring to Alderaan, the planet that had been literally blown to pieces by the Death Star. Billions were killed.

“Really,” Mayfeld comments, faking interest. “Food for thought, huh Burg?” He then cranes his neck to look at the female Twi’lek. “Well, you flew with him, Xi’an. Is he as good as they say?”

They all find Xi’an balancing the tip of her vibroblade on her finger. Not breaking her focus, she replies, “Ask him about the job at Alzoc III.”

Against the bounty hunter's will, the memories of burnt corpses, blood-stained floors, and ear-splitting screams tumble onto him like a pile of bricks. But he stubbornly refuses to let them weigh him down. Xi’an did not know it at the time—and she still does not, thank Mandalore—that during that particular operation, he just learned of his buir’s death at the hands of her worthless, bounty hunter partner. So much anger and hatred and pain had roared through his young veins that he needed some kind of release or else go insane. Eliminating anything and anyone who was not a member of his and Ran’s team had been, much to his shame, the perfect outlet. It was almost therapeutic.

He feels the expectant glances of Mayfeld, Burg, and Talia. Ignoring the latter and focusing on Xi’an instead, he grimly states, “I did what I had to.”

With the flick of her wrist, the Twi’lek holds her knife by its blade and gestures to him, scoffing, “Oh, but you liked it. See, I know who you really are.” She sends him a shrewd smile then smugly says to Talia, “ _No one_ comes close to me in that regard.”

“He never takes off the helmet?” Mayfeld asks her.

Xi’an shakes her head, grinning. Then, she places her arm across her chest in a mock salute. Deepening her voice, she dramatically quotes, “This is the way.” Her cackles fill up the cold ship, and he grimaces at the ridicule.

Humming, Mayfeld fixes his blue eyes on the bounty hunter. “I wonder what you look like under there. Maybe he’s a Gungan.” After releasing a half-chuckle, he puts on a Gungan accent, saying, “Is that why you’sa don wanna show yo face?”

This earns a roar of laughter from Burg. The suggestion of being tied to that silly-talking species makes the Mandalorian’s bones tense up. Mayfeld chuckles at his own joke while Xi’an snickers.

“You from Naboo?” Talia throws at the former Imperial. She crosses her leg, her black boots gleaming in the light. “I almost wonder if you were raised by Gungans because that accent is spot-on.”

“Yeah, perfect!” Burg chortles.

Mayfeld’s amused expression morphs into betrayal at her comment. So far, Talia has been flirtatious with him, but her words are a slap to his scruff-covered face, telling him exactly _whom_ her loyalties lie with.

Smirking, the Mandalorian watches Mayfeld glare at the Devaronian before asking Xi’an, “You ever seen his face?”

As if the question is an inappropriate one, the Twi’lek gasps with shock. She then plays with the ends of one of her head-tails. Looking at the bounty hunter, she whispers a breathy flirt, “A lady never tells.”

“Normally, that wouldn’t stop me,” an elegant accent boldly states.

All eyes, including his, snap in Talia’s direction. As if not noticing their stares, she readjusts her shawl, allowing it to hang around her neck like a long scarf. Her Iron Heart necklace twinkles against her tanned skin, and her dark hair flows down her back. A few of her braids peek out from her locks’ thick depths.

“Tal,” he warns, not sure what she is getting at.

“Stop you?! What?!” Xi’an demands, her blue eyes wide with surprise. “I mean—”

Mayfeld barks out a laugh that reminds the Mandalorian of a Kath hound. “Ha, ha, Xi’an! Tal knows what he looks like!” He then points to her neck, noticing her jewelry for the first time. “Hey, look! That pendant matches Mando’s chest. Does that mean you two are really together?” While Xi’an hisses at the question, Mayfeld says to her rival, “Well, come on, beautiful. Don’t leave us hanging.”

“Tal,” he warns again. A part of him dreads what words she will utter next.

For the first time ever, the bounty hunter sees Talia smile wickedly, reminding him that, as a widow, she is not a stranger to the physical shenanigans in the bedroom. She replies, “I wish I could, my dear Mayfeld. But I gave my word not to say a thing.” With a haughty look directed at Xi’an, she adds, much to the bounty hunter’s embarrassment, “My lips are . . . sealed.”

While he ignores the blood heating up his neck and ears, Burg and Mayfeld whistle and hoot. Xi’an scowls at Talia, and if his friend was not already on her kill-list, she most certainly is now. Can this day get any worse?

After a few moments, Mayfeld manages to calm himself down. To the bounty hunter, he coaxes, “Aw, come on, Mando. We all gotta trust each other here. You gotta show us something. Come on. Just lift the helmet up,” he attempts to persuade him in a serious tone. “Come on. Let us all see your eyes.”

Burg stands up suddenly, catching the bounty hunter’s attention. He then glances at Mayfeld and sees him jerk his chin up to the Devaronian in silent permission. Easily encouraged, Burg marches over to the bounty hunter and declares, “I’ll do it.”

Moving faster than expected, Burg reaches for him, but the Mandalorian catches his left wrist, stopping him with his quick reflexes. Time slows down as Burg throws a punch his way. In response, the Mandalorian grabs the red hand intended for his helmet and redirects its aim, forcing Burg into a corner. With his other hand, the Mandalorian pushes the Devaronian squarely in the back. Grunting, Burg spins around, ready to strike, but receives a punch instead.

As the bounty hunter watches the horned alien fall backwards, his red hand grabs for anything to balance him. Unfortunately, Burg’s fingers brush up against the control panel of the sleeping compartment. Before the bounty hunter can even blink, the door slides up, revealing a pointy-eared Vandar who is wide awake. He greets the newcomers with a curious coo.

“Whoa!” he hears Mayfeld exclaim. The other man rises from his seat and asks, “What is _that_?”

The Mandalorian, who catches Talia’s eye, fearfully looks at the baby. In his peripheral vision, he sees that she is standing up and is about to stop Mayfeld from getting closer to their child.

With a chuckle and a look of surprise, the former Imperial glances at him, asking, “You get lonely up here, buddy? Wait a minute.” He turns around to an approaching Xi’an. “Did you two make that? Huh? Or did you two?” he throws at the bounty hunter and Talia. “You really green underneath all that armor, Mando?” He laughs while Burg chuckles. “What is it? Like a pet or something?” he wonders aloud, studying the baby curiously.

The Mandalorian sees Talia open her mouth, so he quickly replies, “Yeah. Something like that.”

Mayfeld waves a gloved hand at the green-skinned alien, as if saying ‘hello.’ His guardian is about to retort that Vandar is a healthy baby and not a blind one when Xi’an turns to him. The bottom end of her blade’s hilt is poised underneath her chin as she muses, “Didn’t take you for the type.” She steps into his personal space and whispers, “Maybe that Code of yours has made you soft.”

“The baby’s mine,” Talia suddenly blurts out. When everyone looks at her, surprised, she adds, “I’ve been taking care of him since I found him.”

Mayfeld regards her like dessert, which makes ignoring Xi’an an easy thing to do for the bounty hunter. “Pretty _and_ sweet,” the bald man remarks. “I like it. But me? I was never really into pets. Yeah, I didn’t have the temperament.” He raises his eyes briefly to the ship’s ceiling, searching for another word. “Patience, you know. I mean I _tried_ , but it never worked out. But I’m thinking . . . maybe,” he continues, picking up the baby, “I’ll try again with this little fellow, huh?”

Seeing Mayfeld cradle Vandar, the Mandalorian and Talia both take a step closer. Even though they are a few feet away from one another, he can feel apprehension radiate from her body. The baby releases an innocent coo, and his guardian hopes that Vandar never remembers his encounter with Mayfeld.

Much to his horror, the jerk in question pretends to drop the little one. The bounty hunter flinches, ready to act, and so does Talia. Anger simmers through his blood when Mayfeld and Xi’an snicker at their alarm.

Before the Mandalorian can growl at the former Imperial to put the baby down, they hear ZERO announce over the ship’s comms, _“Dropping out of hyperspace . . . now.”_

In less than a second, the _Crest_ rumbles and jerks almost uncontrollably, causing the crew to lose their balance. The bounty hunter bumps into Talia while the other mercenaries try to hold on to whatever they can grab in order not to fall to the cold floor.

 _“Commencing final approach . . . now,”_ ZERO informs them. Its mechanical words are followed by a turbulent lurch to their left. _“Cloaking signal . . . now.”_

The droid’s measured yet reckless flying jumbles everyone in the ship. Mayfeld actually does drop the baby in an effort not to fall to the ground himself. With a squeal, Vandar’s small body flies in the air, and the bounty hunter is about to catch him when Talia beats him to it. Like a Nexu, she quickly dives for the baby in a flash of black and deep-red. Before Vandar even hits the ground, his nanny gathers him in her arms. He watches his friend slide across the floor, away from the crew. Lying on her side, Talia curls herself into a protective ball.

After feeling the ship undergo another hard turn, the Mandalorian instinctively dives for his companions. His body slams into the metal ground, but he ignores the impact and lays a protective arm around Talia as she holds Vandar close to her chest.

Together, with the baby safely tucked in between them, they wait for ZERO to land the _Crest_ on the prison ship.

* * *

Talia's Attire:

Talia's Accessories:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here is one of my surprises: incorporating Talia in “The Prisoner” episode. I was hesitant to do this because, up until now, I have kept her behind-the-scenes where the show is concerned. But I wanted to see if I could insert her smoothly and naturally. What do you think? Is she fitting well in “The Prisoner” so far? I would really like to know your opinion because I am on the fence on whether to incorporate her in the last two episodes of Season 1 or not.
> 
> Here are my two ideas: (1) I can pull Talia out of the story and let Mando deal with Episodes 7 & 8 alone, like we see in the show, or (2) I can again insert her in the storyline and finish Season 1 with her in it.
> 
> Please tell me in the comments which option you would prefer. I can use the help in deciding. Don’t be afraid to offend me if you choose Option 1 because I still have a good story to bring her back in. But if you’re curious as to how I might insert Talia, choose Option 2.
> 
> For a while now, I’ve been keeping an eye on “Helmet of Honor” Hits, and it seems that I get an average of 45-50 hits in between updates. So, I know there are a lot of silent readers checking out my story week-by-week. Tell me which option you like best; your answer can simply be, “Option #.” Thank you for reading!!


	18. Why That Prisoner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second part of “The Prisoner” episode. Since I’m sure most of us are quite familiar with its complicated action sequences, I will not go into too much detail. But still, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter XVIII: Why _That_ Prisoner?

_Location: Lambda Sector, Mid-Rim_

_“Engaging coupling . . . now_ ,” ZERO announces over the comms, and the arrogant droid lands the ship with a lurch. The bounty hunter can feel the _Crest_ heave its metal body forward as if it had just released a sigh of relief at finally being able to rest itself from a very intense trip.

Still on the floor, lying on his side, he cranes his neck up a little. His eyes meet Talia’s brown ones, and he can see calmness flowing from them. The arm that he had protectively laid over her is still there, wrapped behind her shoulder blades. Even through his glove he can feel heat from her body warming his fingers. He watches her lift a hand and place it over his bicep, giving him a gentle squeeze, a silent message telling him that she is all right.

Nodding at her, he glances in between them at Vandar. The gifted baby is whimpering, probably still scared from their wild ride. When he looks up at his guardians, Talia shushes him. The soft sound appears to pacify Vandar; it even soothes the bounty hunter’s tense body. And for a few seconds, this moment belongs to all three of them.

 _“Coupling confirmed,”_ he hears ZERO report overhead. _“We are down.”_

The droid’s mechanical voice shatters the short reprieve, and the baby starts to cry, albeit quietly. Retracting his arm, the Mandalorian rises from the cold floor before helping Talia to her feet. The grip that each of them has on one another’s hand is firm and built on trust. As he uses his weight to pull her up, her dark hair sways down her back like a curtain. He releases her hand, and she cradles Vandar close to her chest with both arms.

 _“Is he okay?”_ he asks in Mando’a, nodding at the baby. Behind them, he can hear the rest of the crew sigh in relief.

 _“He’s a little rattled,”_ she explains before shushing Vandar again. This time, the child calms down a bit. He sniffles then hiccups at her.

When the bounty hunter turns around, so he can see the status of Ran’s team, he hears ZERO state, _“Commence extraction . . . now.”_ Xi’an hisses about how the droid failed to give them a head’s up while Burg picks up two cases in the middle of the room and tosses them off to the side. As the red-skinned Devaronian stalks past him, the bounty hunter steers Talia towards the back of the _Crest_.

They slither by Mayfeld who is leaning against the ladder connected to the cockpit. “Z, you sure they can’t see us?” he speaks into his commlink.

 _“The_ Razor Crest _is scrambling our signature,”_ they all hear the droid reply. _“And I’m inside the prison’s system. It’s impressive that this gunship has survived the Empire without being impounded.”_

Ignoring another insult from ZERO, the Mandalorian opens up his sleeping compartment. Talia puts the baby inside then lays him on his back. When Vandar frowns at her, she delicately runs her fingers across one tip of his ear all the way across his wrinkly green head to the tip of his other ear. Both of his guardians watch the motherly gesture take effect within seconds. Vandar’s big brown eyes fight to stay awake, and when Talia repeats her tender ministrations, he is soon lulled to sleep. And only after witnessing this does the Mandalorian relax.

Despite the noise the rest of the crew is making, Vandar does not emerge from his impromptu nap. Talia backs away from him, and the bounty hunter closes the door to his sleeping compartment.

“All right, we got a job to do,” Mayfeld calls out to the mercenaries. “Mando, you’re up.”

Leaving Talia to stand in front of the place where his ward is resting, the bounty hunter strides across his ship. He passes by Mayfeld and Xi’an, both of whom are standing close together, whispering to each other. When he reaches the middle of the room, he kneels and presses a button that will open up the _Crest_ ’s floor hatch. He can feel Burg breathing down his neck as he retrieves a device that is designed to unlock the prison ship’s small door directly under him.

While giving his tech time to do its job, he deliberates on this daring, stupid plan. If they get caught, he will not hesitate for a second to leave Ran’s team and head for the _Crest_. Unlike them, he does not have the luxury to think only of himself. There are two other people depending on him to make it back, alive.

A loud, steady beep interrupts his thoughts. Below him, the prison ship’s hatch swooshes open, granting them access. He unplugs his hand-held device while Mayfeld is chosen—by popular vote, it seems—to be the first one to descend into the transport. Talia walks over to the bounty hunter, her hand settled on her holstered blaster.

Together, they watch Mayfeld lie on the floor and insert his upper body through the prison ship’s hatch. A cruel part of the Mandalorian entertains the idea to either do something that will cut the other man in half or to kick the rest of his body down the hole and leave him there in the prison vessel.

After a few seconds, the former Imperial returns to the _Crest_ and holsters his blaster pistols. Kneeling on the floor, he turns to Talia, saying in a business-like tone, “Remember, sweetheart: you’re ZERO’s back-up, if he needs it.”

She answers him with a single nod before Mayfeld dives head-first into the transport below.

“And don’t get in ZERO’s way,” Xi’an warns her, following her associate.

Burg is the only one left, much to the bounty hunter’s annoyance. The big Devaronian glares at him for a few seconds then jumps feet-first down into the prison ship. He lands with a loud thump.

Over the comms, ZERO mentions something about disabling one of the sub-level’s surveillance, but the Mandalorian tunes it out. His boots are inches away from the open hatch, and he cannot stop himself from sending a quick glance at the closed compartment where the baby is.

“Protect him,” he says to Talia, nodding at the coffin-like closet. “And watch the droid. I don’t trust it.”

He is about to jump through the hatch when he feels a gentle hand lay on his arm. Stopping himself, he turns to face his companion. She nervously licks her lips and murmurs, “Come back safely. Please?”

“I’ll be fine,” he assures her, trying to sound more confident than he feels.

Time slows down as she places her right hand on his left shoulder. Knowing what she is doing, he mirrors her movements. Once his own hand is settled on her shoulder, they simultaneously lean towards each other and press their heads together in the Japrael System greeting and farewell. For two, long seconds he keeps his helmet up against her smooth forehead. A sense of tranquility emanates from her, and he allows it to steady the jittery nerves that he did not realize he has been fighting.

“You know how to contact me if things go downhill,” she whispers, pulling away from him. He nods as they both drop their hands. Shortly after they had left Onderon, they set up direct communication with one another if, by some unfortunate circumstance, they should ever be separated. His helmet is able reach out to either her Imagecaster or her wrist commlink, and vice versa. He just hopes he will not have to use it today—or anytime soon for that matter.

“If things go downhill,” he firmly tells her, “don’t come after me. The kid needs one of us to stay alive.”

Before she can answer or even argue with him, he jumps feet-first through the open hatch and lands in the prison ship. He feels his grey cloak flutter behind him as he pulls out his blaster pistol. Striding towards Mayfeld, who is stationed at the corner of the hall, the Mandalorian takes in the glistening white floors and walls. The crew, with their various shades of clothes and skin, all stand out against the blank canvas of the prison ship’s environs.

“All right. We’re on the clock,” the point-man tells him, his voice laced with irritation. “The second we engage those droids they’ll be all over us.”

“I know the drill,” the bounty hunter replies. He has done operations like this too many times for him to forget.

 _“Trackers activated,”_ he hears ZERO announce through the commlink. _“I’ve got eyes.”_

Mayfeld leads them through the deathly quiet prison, following the droid’s instructions every other minute or so. Keeping his blaster in front of him but tilted at a downward angle, the bounty hunter is directly behind the former Imperial as they continue to jog through the hallways without being detected.

After a couple of short minutes, they soon pass by caged prisoners. He can feel a wave of grim loathing radiating from the cells. Some of them call out to the rag-tag crew in Galactic Basic or in their native tongue. The Mandalorian notes that an Imperial officer has also been incarcerated, and he remembers what Talia had said to him earlier: _“I didn’t fight the Empire for twenty-five years just so the New Republic’s judicial system can be compromised by a gang of cold-blooded mercs.”_

This entire prison is meant for people like that Imperial whose gaze he meets briefly. And here he is, working with Ran’s team, while they are engaged in a plan to spring an inmate whom is undoubtedly a criminal. And for what? A payday? People may be killed, an unworthy prisoner will receive an undeserving and early parole, and the New Republic’s prison ship will be breached—all so he can get a handful of credits.

 _This is wrong,_ something inside his chest whispers to him. Some of the jobs he has previously done come crashing down on him; and, not for the first time, he regrets certain bounties that he has undertaken in the past.

His gut twists the further they delve into the transport, and he blurts out, “I don’t like this.”

Though he is jeered at for actually having instincts, he wonders if the crew regrets not listening to him because, shortly afterwards, they run into a couple of hiccups. Well, Burg is responsible for one of them; that thoughtless Devaronian shoots a tiny MSE-6 repair droid. The noise is probably the reason why they are soon discovered by a small squad of New Republic security droids who start shooting at them without hesitation. So, the Mandalorian has to save the crew from the second hiccup—all by himself, much to his irritation.

 _Why is it,_ he thinks while destroying one guard at a time, _that I have to do everything?_ He shoots a droid. _Every._ A mechanical head gets severed by his grappling cable. _Single._ He burns a droid with fire from his gauntlets. _Time?_

His finger squeezes the trigger of his blaster, and the final guard collapses to the floor, which is now littered with droid body parts and oil. Burnt metal wafts in the air as he strides through the wrecked guards. He can still feel his adrenaline pumping through his blood.

“Make sure you clean up your mess,” Mayfeld throws at him. The snide comment goes hand-in-hand with the light shade of envy that flashes across the bald man’s face, and the Mandalorian smirks behind his helmet at the sight.

 _“It seems your presence has been detected,”_ they hear ZERO announce through Mayfeld’s commlink.

 _“I think they figured that out,”_ Talia’s elegant accent chimes in. The way she said that, all dry and proper, cheers up the bounty hunter.

 _“Which is why,”_ ZERO replies, _“I shall be re-directing security alerts away from their position.”_

The team hurries down another hallway. Their destination: the control room.

“Z, open the door,” he hears Mayfeld tell the droid.

_“But I’m detecting an organic signature.”_

“Yeah, okay. All right, just open the door!” Mayfeld orders.

Fortunately, ZERO listens. However, the moment the crew enters the room, they are greeted by a New Republic soldier who points his blaster pistol at them. As one, they come to an abrupt stop. The Mandalorian raises his own weapon at the soldier, and he figures this must be the prison warden.

“Stop!” the man dressed in blue commands them, his weapon shaking in his hand. “S-stop r-right there! You put down your blasters right now!”

Like the predators they are, the mercenaries slowly walk into the control room and try to circle around the warden as if he is their next meal. As Mayfeld and Burg poke fun at the soldier’s clothes, the bounty hunter’s stomach drops when his brain runs through some calculations. A majority of the results do not end favorably for the warden.

Pointing his pistol at the armed solider, he says to Mayfeld, “There were only supposed to be droids on this ship.” When the warden glances his way, the bounty hunter shakes his head at him, silently warning him not to do something stupid.

His comment goes unnoticed by the former Imperial who is combing through the computer terminal. “Cell 221,” he announces their next destination. Like a wolf, he turns to the solider. “All right, now for our well-dressed friend.”

When the warden retrieves a hand-held beacon from his belt, the bounty hunter clenches his jaw. _Now why’d he have to do a thing like that?_ he inwardly grumbles because the action startles the other mercs, especially Mayfeld who yanks out his own pistol and points it at the warden.

“Easy!” the Mandalorian reprimands the soldier. “Nobody has to get hurt here. Just calm down.”

“What is that thing?” Burg asks, his vacant blue eyes staring at the device in the warden’s hand.

“It’s a tracking beacon,” the Mandalorian replies. He tries very hard to keep his voice from sounding irritated.

“If he presses that thing,” Mayfeld further explains, “we’re all done. A New Republic attack team will hone-in on that signal and will blow us all to hell.” Looking at the warden, he demands, “Put it down!”

“Are you serious?” Xi’an exclaims. She has been sitting down in one of the computer chairs since they arrived, enjoying the break-in with twisted glee. But now, her shoulders are tense, and her icy glare is pinned on Mayfeld.

“Yes, I’m serious,” he snaps, still pointing his blaster at the soldier.

“You didn’t think we needed to know that _tiny_ , little detail?” she asks, sarcasm coldly dripping from her breathy voice. Against his will, the bounty hunter feels a chill run down his back.

While the two argue over this new information, the Mandalorian tries to find a way to salvage the situation. In order to get the soldier’s attention, he waves at him, saying, “Hey, listen to me. Hey, hey, hey. Listen to me, okay?” As a sign of good faith, he holsters his pistol. “Look. Hey, put it down,” he prompts Mayfeld, encouraging him to follow his lead.

“Are you crazy?” the bald man hisses with wide eyes.

After barking at him, the Mandalorian is relieved when Mayfeld complies, albeit begrudgingly. To the warden, he asks, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Davan,” the soldier answers, his face glistening with sweat.

“Davan,” he repeats in a tone he hopes is calming. “We’re not here for you. We’re here for a prisoner. If you let us go about our job, you can walk away with your life.”

He is a fool for thinking the rest of the crew will agree with him, but he had to try. When Mayfeld retrieves both of his pistols and declares they will do no such thing, the bounty hunter swallows a scoff. Frustration simmers through him as the former Imperial points each of his weapons at him and Davan. Instinctively, the bounty hunter shifts his blaster from aiming at the warden so it can be directed at Mayfeld instead.

“You realize what you’re going to bring down on us,” he tries to reason with the bald man’s desire to save his own skin.

Much to his dismay, Mayfeld asks, “Think I care about that?”

The phrase, _“cold-blooded mercs,”_ echoes in the Mandalorian’s brain. Not wanting to be one of them, he states, “We’re not killing anybody. You understand?”

“Get that blaster out of my face, Mando,” Mayfeld orders. His voice is surprisingly cold and eerily calm.

“I can’t do that,” he replies when in reality, he wants to says, ‘I won’t.’

Before he knows it, he is in a stand-off with both Mayfeld and Burg. With their weapons pointed at one another and Davan, they form a warped-looking square. Though the Mandalorian finds the idea of killing a soldier, who is simply doing his job, repugnant, he realizes that he will have no qualms about eliminating Mayfeld and Burg.

The tension in the room is so thick that the Mandalorian has the sudden urge to breathe in clean air from a cool planet like Sorgan. In a flash, that thought is destroyed by a vibro-knife cutting across the room. Unable to react fast enough, he watches as the activated blade implants itself into the prison warden. His stomach churns when the dutiful Davan falls to the ground, dead.

Like the rest of the men in the room, he glances at the knife’s origin: Xi’an.

“Would you both just _shut up_!” she exclaims.

“Crazy Twi,” he hears Mayfeld mutter, but the bounty hunter’s attention is glued to the lifeless Davan. Blood seeps through the man’s blue uniform, dyeing it a dark purple.

 _He deserved better than that,_ the Mandalorian thinks to himself.

A sharp beeping noise penetrates the quiet room. He lifts his gaze and sees, lying within reach of Davan’s hand, the tracking beacon. It flashes red, indicating that it has already been activated.

“Was that thing blinking before?” Mayfeld asks, anxiety coloring his voice.

_“Zero to Mayfeld. Zero to Mayfeld.”_

“What?”

 _“I’ve detected a New Republic distress signal homing in on your location,”_ ZERO informs them. _“You have approximately twenty minutes.”_

Xi’an, who had retrieved her knife from Davan’s corpse, simply shrugs at Mayfeld, saying, “You only need five.”

The declaration is callous and wrong. It glues the Mandalorian to the floor as the other mercs rush out of the control room. His eyes drift down to Davan. He wonders if the man had a family. If he had fought the Empire for most of his life. Or if he had bad luck and timing for being here when the crew showed up to spring a prisoner.

 _Since when did you care?_ a gruff voice penetrates his thoughts. It sounds awfully like Ran’s.

“I shouldn’t,” he mutters to himself as he turns around and runs after the rest of his criminal team.

He catches up with them in a matter of seconds, but instinct is telling him to return to the _Crest_ and leave them here for the New Republic to deal with. Yet he stubbornly stays true to his word. In less than five minutes they reach Cell 221, and ZERO finds a way to open the door for them.

 _Okay,_ the bounty hunter thinks to himself. _Let’s see which prisoner’s worth all this trouble._

The cell’s door opens vertically, revealing a lone inmate: a male Twi’lek with scars across his face and with skin the exact same shade as Xi’an’s.

“Qin,” he says, disgust hidden in his flat tone.

 _Why_ that _prisoner?_ he inwardly fumes. _He’s as valuable as a Rancor wandering in a space station._

Just like his sister, Qin thrives on killing sprees and making unnecessary messes. While Xi’an prefers to use her vibrodaggers, her brother takes a disturbing amount of pleasure in either strangling his victims with his bare hands or shooting them beyond recognition with his blaster pistols.

“Ah, funny,” Qin remarks in his scratchy voice. As he swaggers over to them, he chuckles deeply, “The man who left me behind is now my savior . . . Mando.”

The bounty hunter is tempted to push Qin back in his cage and seal the door shut. He steps forward with more than half a mind to follow through with that plan, when he hears Burg grunt behind him. Instinct screams at him to run, and as he turns around, the Devaronian punches him hard. The impact is enough to throw the bounty hunter backwards. He crashes to the floor and finds himself in Qin’s cell. Not wanting to believe this is happening to him, he raises his blaster and fires at the treacherous crew.

But the door closes faster than it opened, trapping him inside. His red laser bolt bounces off the exit and ricochets all over the walls. It even hits him on his right pauldron, knocking him down, before it finally embeds itself into something.

“You deserve this!” he hears Xi’an scream at him.

“And I’ll take good care of your pets!” Mayfeld taunts.

_The kid! Talia._

Both thoughts are enough for him to jump to his feet. He slams himself into the door, but it does not budge. He peeks through the cell’s window and is disappointed that the hallways are deserted. Desperate to get out, he pounds his gloved fists against the door and grunts in frustration.

 _How could have I been so stupid?_ he asks himself, sinking to his knees. _I shouldn’t have taken this job. I should’ve listened to my gut. I should’ve listened to Talia’s. But no!_ he inwardly kicks himself while banging his helmet against the door. _I_ had _to make some money!_

He considers reaching out to his fellow Mando; she needs to know about the crew, about what they may plan for her and the kid. He is on the verge of hailing her when he realizes something that he should have thought of before: their communication has a chance of being detected by ZERO, along with the crew, and the New Republic. Either group will bring harm to both of his companions.

The realization angers him. Still on his knees, he looks up and glares at the white ceiling. He can feel his hand gripping his pistol shake with fury. How can Fate do this to him? Has he not taken care of a baby that Fate has dropped into his lap? Has he not fed him, protected him when the Mandalorian could have simply let that former Imperial warlord have him? He has kept the baby even though adoption was never a part of his plans.

 _Maybe your path with him is over,_ a voice tells him. This time, it sounds like it belongs to his Tribe’s Armorer. _He has another guardian with him. Perhaps you were supposed to lead him to her this entire time._

“No,” he mutters defiantly. He refuses to believe that Fate would just throw him aside like a worn-out boot. His gut tells him that his journey with both of his companions is not over yet. “ _This_ is the way,” he whispers.

Standing up, he holsters his weapon then glances around him. He tries to figure out how to abscond from Qin’s cell. The door, he believes, is the only escape route. The question is: how to open it? His eyes drop to the middle of the door, to the place where a droid can insert its computer interface appendage. If he can get his hands on one of those, then he can unlock this white pristine cage from the inside and . . .

 _And do what?_ he asks himself. _I can’t make the team pay or head back to the_ Crest _. Not stuck in here. I don’t have a—_

The sound of metal feet clanging on the floor outside of the cell interrupts his pessimistic train of thought. Perhaps Fate _will_ help him escape after all.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

Thanks to a little creativity and some resourcefulness, the Mandalorian is now free and running down the halls of the prison ship. Lights flash, and the alarms blare, but he does not allow any of these things to distract him.

After escaping from Qin’s cell, he makes a bee-line for the control room and uses the computer there to sabotage his former crew’s retreat to his ship. He turns off the main power which forces the prison vessel to revert to its emergency power. Most of the lights switch to red as he closes doors at random and severs all communications within a three-mile radius. But instead of heading back to the _Crest_ , he lingers in the control room. He assumes that his escape will be known to Mayfeld and the rest by now and that, by causing them trouble, they will soon figure out he is here and plan to eliminate him.

Amongst all the alarms and confusion, he hears Davan’s beacon still beeping. He walks over to it, careful not to step on the deceased warden. For some reason, he picks it up and stashes the beacon away on his belt.

 _For later,_ he tells himself.

Loud footsteps echo down the hall. His plan to lure the other mercs to his location has worked, so he finds a place to hide. Looking around, he climbs atop the computers and takes cover in the rafters above. He is surprised—more like stunned—that it is Burg who has figured out the best way to deal with him is to find him here.

 _Not entirely a meathead after all,_ he silently muses. _I’ve got to tell Talia. She’ll be shocked, too._

“Where are you, little mouse?” he hears Burg say once he has entered the control room.

From his perch above, he watches the Devaronian survey all of his surroundings, except for the ceiling. The element of surprise is on his side while brute strength is on Burg’s. He does not want to kill the bigger male for his betrayal. No, he wants him to pay, dearly. Therefore, the Mandalorian decides to forego using his blaster at the moment.

Instead, he has his gauntlet’s grappling cable wrap itself around Burg’s throat. He hopes to render him unconscious with this stunt, but his victim’s strength prevents that from happening. Burg is not the crew’s muscle for nothing: he tugs at the cable so hard that the bounty hunter is pulled from the rafters and crashes onto the floor.

In some of the longest two minutes of his life, the Mandalorian wastes three of his Whistling Bird missiles, gets his blasters slapped out of his hands, and is tossed onto the control panels. He tries to subdue Burg by ejecting fire from his gauntlet, but that does not work either. Since when have Devaronians been immune to fire?

Although he is able to land a few punches himself, he realizes that he cannot meet brute strength with strength. The bounty hunter gets punched, dragged across the terminals, tossed to the floor again, and kicked. With an aching body and some cracked ribs, he tries to pull himself to his feet when Burg growls, “Let’s see your face, Mandalorian.”

Before he knows it, the Devaronian’s red hands are gripping his neck, choking the breath out of him. Using his weight against him, the bounty hunter is able to drop to the ground while throwing Burg over him. As his opponent slams onto the floor outside of the control room, the bounty hunter retrieves his knife from his right boot and throws it into the door’s panel.

Just when Burg rises from the ground, the vertical door falls on top of him. Unfortunately, he is strong enough to hold it up. Carrying the metal door’s weight, he sends the Mandalorian a bear-like grin, so the latter jabs at a button on the computer beside him. In the blink of an eye, two horizontal doors shut in front of Burg, and the Mandalorian can hear a grunt followed by a loud thump on the other side of the steel barrier.

When he glances at the surveillance for outside the control room, he finds Burg on the floor and as still as a boulder. It seems that the horizontal doors had unbalanced the Devaronian so much that the weight of the vertical door he was holding had become too heavy. The loud thump he heard must have been Burg falling on his back and hitting his head hard on the floor.

Thinking the horned alien is unconscious, the Mandalorian opens the doors again so he can subdue the other three mercs. However, Burg releases a groan and begins to stir. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Mandalorian punches his dazed opponent into oblivion. Though his right-hand throbs afterwards, he feels that it is a small price to pay.

He hears the clanging of metal feet echoing from a nearby hallway, telling him that he will soon encounter more guard droids if he does not leave. Glancing down at an unconscious Burg, the bounty hunter figures the droids can take care of him. So, he races down another white-walled passage with the intention of catching up with Qin, Mayfeld, and Xi’an. He just hopes he can deal with them before someone decides to bail out, leaving him here and taking his two companions with them.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

His right shoulder radiates pain every time he moves it, even a little. He can feel a trickle of blood run down his arm before getting soaked by his sleeve.

A few minutes ago, he had been stabbed by one of Xi’an’s knives. The activated blade, with a glowing blue-patterned handle, lodged itself between his Beskar. As soon as he was able, he ripped it out from where it was tearing into his muscle. Not wanting to leave any evidence that he was here on the prison ship, evidence such as blood, he had stashed the knife in his boot for the time being.

Out of the ten blades that Xi’an normally carries, she had viciously thrown nine of them at him when he tracked her down. He evaded her sharp attacks, using his gauntlets and other pieces of his armor to deflect them, but she was still able to get him.

Thankfully, Mayfeld was easier to subdue. Some triggerman he was supposed to be. And Talia said something earlier about knowing excellent Imperial marksmen! Yeah right. She must have been lying.

Ignoring any more thoughts of his former crew and his injured shoulder, the Mandalorian runs down the pearly hallways. His memory serves him well as he retraces his steps back to his ship. When he enters a long hall, he catches a glimpse of purple Twi’lek head-tails turning the corner. He shouts, “Qin!”

Once he turns the corner himself, he finds the worthless prisoner about to climb the ladder to the _Crest_. Qin, he notices, has one hand gripping a blaster. The Mandalorian tightens his hold on his own weapon as the Twi’lek decides not to scramble up the ladder.

“You killed the others,” Qin states, his gruff voice sounding resigned. He leans his body heavily on the metal ladder.

 _I did much better than that,_ the bounty hunter thinks to himself.

“They got what they deserved,” he says instead. He remembers a lesson that Death Watch had passed down to him years ago: ‘Show no mercy to those who have shown no loyalty.’ So, yes. Burg and Xi’an and Mayfeld—they definitely had gotten what they deserved. And then some.

Scowling at him, the Twi’lek turns in his direction and points his blaster at him. Like lightning, the bounty hunter responds in kind.

As he watches Qin close the distance between them at a lazy Hutt’s pace, he notices a pair of black boots quietly descending the ladder. He relaxes the moment Talia comes into view; she must have heard them from inside the _Crest_. Her long hair sweeps down her back, and even from this distance he can see a few braids in her wavy locks. A small voice tells him he should wonder if ZERO is a threat onboard his ship, yet he cannot help thinking that his fellow Mando is a sight for sore eyes with her black clothes and deep-red shawl wrapped across her upper shoulders.

So far, Qin has not even realized that he is being sandwiched between two people. A smile, small yet proud, appears on his face as he points out to the bounty hunter, “You kill me, you don’t get your money.” Qin shrugs, his pistol still aimed at him. “Whatever Ran promised, I’ll make sure you get it. And more,” he assures him, though the bounty hunter doubts Qin has enough sway with Ran to actually come through with this deal.

Qin takes another step closer to him while Talia does the same. The bounty hunter sees her retrieve her DE-10 blaster pistol from her black leather holster strapped to her belt. Like a ghost, silent and graceful, she points it at the back of Qin’s head.

“Come on, Mando,” the purple-skinned alien tries to persuade him. He lowers his weapon before tossing it to the floor. “Be reasonable, huh? You were hired to do a job, right?” Surprising the bounty hunter, Qin then offers him his wrists, surrendering them so they can be bound by cuffs. “So, do it,” he encourages him cunningly. “Isn’t that your Code?”

At this, the Mandalorian feels his grip on his blaster waver, and he begins to slowly lower it. Even though his Code stopped him from committing monstrosities in the past, today has showed him that there were still too many lines that he should not have crossed. Being a part of this operation to free Qin, allowing Davan to get killed in the process, having his need for credits place him and his two companions in danger—all of that could have been avoided if he had abided by a warrior’s moral code.

“Aren’t you a man of honor?” Qin asks him with a sneer.

Talia, who had been glaring at the Twi’lek, chooses this moment to press the barrel-end of her pistol right at the back of Qin’s head. With wide eyes, he freezes.

“What do you know of honor, merc?” she hisses in Qin’s ear, and the bounty hunter thinks that she would have made even the deadliest assassin shiver with her cold tone.

At the moment, she no longer looks like the heroic Angel of Onderon that he had come to know on her homeworld. Dressed in black and red from head to toe, she stands out against the clean white halls of the prison ship. She actually reminds him of a blood-stained Angel of Death about to claim her next victim and drag him into the darkest parts of the afterlife.

“You okay?” she asks him, bringing him back to the present.

“We need to get out of here,” he tells her. Still holding his pistol in one hand, he grabs Qin with the other. He spins him around and pushes his quarry towards the ladder. “Where’s ZERO?” he demands as Talia falls into step with him.

“Deactivated,” she replies, reaching the ladder first. “Permanently.”

In a few seconds, she ascends the ladder. When she disappears from his view, the Mandalorian releases Qin and orders him to climb up next. The Twi’lek obeys, though he releases a complaining grunt. Only after he has disappeared into the _Crest_ does the Mandalorian follow him. His injured shoulder groans as he scrambles up the ladder.

While climbing, he hears Qin taunt at Talia, “I’ll admit you’re prettier than my sister. Mando sure does know how to pick ’em.”

“Shut up!” she snaps, and the bounty hunter smirks behind his helmet. It seems that Qin’s presence is just as annoying and disgusting to her as it is to him.

When he enters the _Crest_ , he finds Qin sitting on a crate while Talia has her blaster still pointed at him. The Twi’lek sends her a leering grin, to which she rolls her eyes at. As the Mandalorian closes the ship’s floor hatch, he spies ZERO on the floor. The droid’s dark gray plating is crushed in, as if done so by invisible hands, and its bug-eyed head has been completely removed from its skinny body.

 _“What happened?”_ he asks Talia in Mando’a.

 _“I’ll tell you later,”_ he hears her reply.

“What are you two saying?” Qin demands from where he is sitting.

Not even bothering to answer, the Mandalorian asks Talia, _“And the kid?”_

Though she keeps her eyes fixated on their prisoner, she jerks her chin in the direction of his sleeping compartment, saying, _“Safe.”_

As he heads for the ladder that links to the cockpit, he passes by the coffin-like closet. He is glad its door is closed because too many people have seen the baby today, and he does not want Qin to know about him either.

Sucking in a sigh of relief, the Mandalorian climbs up to the cockpit, an action that makes his right shoulder throb even more. He pushes the pain in a mental closet as he settles into the pilot’s chair and prepares to disengage the _Crest_ from the prison ship. Levers are pulled, switches flipped, buttons pressed. His gloved hands fly across his computer panel before gripping the controls, and soon, he steers the _Crest_ off the other vessel and plunges them into hyperspace as if they are being chased by the New Republic military.

 _Well, not yet anyways,_ he corrects himself.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Location: Primtara Sector, Mid Rim_

Fortunately, the trip back to Ran’s space station goes by faster than the trip to the prison ship. The bounty hunter thinks that it is due to _his_ flying skills and not a lifeless droid’s. With expert hands, he parks the _Crest_ in the station’s hangar.

Returning to the ship’s main compartment, he finds that nothing has changed during their short journey. Qin is still sitting on a crate while Talia continues to point her blaster at him.

“You can put that away now,” he tells his companion, nodding at her weapon. She obeys without question, but he notices that she keeps a hand settled on the holstered pistol.

Motioning for Qin to stand up, the Mandalorian walks past Talia and heads for the side-hatch of the _Crest_. When the Twi’lek moves to stand in front of the exit, the Mandalorian commands the door to open. As it does so, he slips Davan’s beacon at the back of Qin’s belt. He needs to make this delivery a quick one because Republic forces will be coming soon.

Both he and Qin step forward, and Talia lingers in the doorway, leaning on the frame nonchalantly. With Qin in front of him, the bounty hunter walks down the ramp and pushes his quarry forward. A frown forms on his mouth while he watches Qin and Ran reunite. They hug and laugh as he reaches the bottom of the metal walkway. He feels his jaw tense the longer he stares at Ran, his old partner. To think that the shaggy-haired man had schemed against him and arranged for him to take Qin’s place on that prison ship. But the bounty hunter should not be surprised by Ran’s behavior; after all, he never did have an ounce of honor in him.

After Ran and Qin break up, the former looks behind the Mandalorian, obviously waiting for the rest of the crew to come out of the _Crest_.

“Where are the others?” he asks, his smile fading.

“No questions asked,” the bounty hunter reminds him. “That’s the policy, right?”

The older man gives him a slow nod before saying, “Yeah. That is the policy.”

“I did the job. _Alone_ ,” the bounty hunter emphasizes. “Tal wasn’t a part of it. I kept my end of the deal.”

“Yeah, you did,” Ran answers. He looks behind him, probably at Talia, and sends her a nod of approval. Then, he reaches inside his leather vest and retrieves a pouch.

With a flick of his wrist, Ran tosses the small bag to the bounty hunter, who catches it. The pouch is not as heavy as he would like, but after what the crew and Ran had put him through, he is just grateful he and his companions are alive.

“Just like the good old days,” he quips, but he glares at both men. Those backstabbers should have known better than to even try to cross him.

“Yeah,” Ran sighs with a tired smile. “Just like the good old days.”

Turning around, the Mandalorian ascends the ramp and enters his ship. He hears Talia close the door behind him while he heads for the cockpit.

“Bring the kid up here with us,” he calls over his shoulder as he climbs the ladder again. He grits his teeth as a sharp pain from his injury zaps all the way down his arm. His fingers tingle, and he feels his tunic dampen with sweat.

He promises himself to take care of his wound soon. But right now, he needs to get the _Crest_ out of here before the New Republic comes. Quickly, he slips into the pilot’s chair again and turns on the engine. His hands grip the controls as he shifts the ship into reverse. It purrs under his grip, and soon he is steering the _Crest_ away from the station and back into space.

As he guides the ship towards the Outer Rim, he can hear Talia making her way up to the cockpit. He glances behind him and sees her carrying Vandar, who is in his box-cradle. He allows his eyes to linger on them both so he can watch Talia place the baby and his crate on top of the right passenger’s seat.

A moment after he faces the front again, three X-wing fighters zoom past him. He preps the _Crest_ to jump into hyperspace, and a bitter half-smile plays on his lips when he hears explosions behind them.

“What was that about?” Talia asks him, but he chooses not to answer her right away.

Two seconds later, he eases his ship into hyperspace. The diamond stars stretch into linear prisms before suddenly morphing into never-ending blue swirls. Their destination is set for the Outer Rim, and he figures they should reach that in less than two days.

“We got caught,” he replies to Talia’s question.

“I know. ZERO and I were watching you guys from here.”

He nods his head. In all the hubbub, he had forgotten that he asked her to keep an eye on the droid.

Glancing behind him, he says, “I left Ran and Qin a present. Trackable by the Republic.”

The revelation does not earn him a smile nor a nod of approval. Inwardly sighing, he looks at the boundless swirl of blue before him. He hears the baby coo, so he untwists the ball-end of one of his panel’s levers. He turns in his seat and remarks to Vandar, “I told you it was a bad idea.”

His shoulder protests at the angle he is positioning it, but he ignores it. The kid sees his favorite toy and has his green three-fingered hand reach for the silver ball. His guardian surrenders it to him with a half-smile.

When the little one starts sucking on it, the bounty hunter expects Talia to chuckle or say something. But she remains silent. He is willing to bet that she is thinking about what had happened with Ran and the space station, yet his anger at their double-crossing stops him from feeling even remotely sorry.

“I need to take care of something,” he announces before slipping out of his chair. He has ignored his shoulder long enough.

After re-entering the ship’s main compartment, he hears Talia descend the ladder, alone. He watches as she plants herself on the floor, and he is about to ask her if it is wise to leave the baby unsupervised when she asks him, “Do you think I’m blind?”

“What?”

She nods at his shoulder. “You’re hurt. And you’ll need help with it.”

“I’m fine,” he argues, removing his ammo belt. “It’s just a—”

“Scratch?” She cocks a dark eyebrow at him, unconvinced. “I’ve heard that all my life, and most of the time, it’s not just ‘a scratch.’”

“I can handle it, okay?” He is in the process of turning around so he can start looking for his med-kit when a hand grips his left arm. Swallowing a sigh, he allows Talia to steer him back towards her. “I said I can handle it,” he repeats, trying not to sound annoyed.

“You don’t have to,” she says quietly as she lets him go. “Not alone, anyways. It’ll be faster with another set of hands.”

“I’m fine with you mothering the kid,” he retorts as he tosses his ammo belt on a nearby cargo box. “But don’t do that with me, Tal.”

She scoffs at him, moving her deep-red shawl to hang down her neck like a long scarf. “You need to work on how to talk to women, Mando. One of the rules is _not_ to call her old.”

At that remark, he jerks his head, mouth open. She takes this opportunity to remove his right pauldron from his shoulder, her leather-covered hands moving before he can speak. He does not know how she managed to do it so fast, but it is too late for him to shoo her away without offending her further. So, he works on taking off his chest-plate while she sets his pauldron next to his discarded belt.

As he unfastens his main armor piece, he feels Talia inch closer to him, her eyes focused on the blood-soaked patch on his tunic.

“This’ll have to come off,” she tells him, her fingers holding onto the bottom hem of his shirt.

“Do I have to?” he asks as he gets rid of his chest-plate. He winces at his voice; he sounded like a complaining teenager.

Talia places her hands on her hips and looks up at him. “Do I really have to answer that?”

Instead of giving her a snarky retort, he begins removing his right gauntlet. His teeth grind together at the inconvenience, but he knows his injury will be easier to treat if all layers are removed. But he is uncomfortable with the idea of her helping him take off more of his armor. And she must have figured that out because she walks over to her black footlocker and retrieves her own med-kit.

“It looks like a blade wound,” he hears her comment while he takes off his right glove.

“It is.”

“Xi’an’s?”

“Yeah.” He tosses the glove with the rest of his armor pieces.

“Over here,” she calls to him.

When he turns to her, he sees that she had closed her footlocker and is gesturing for him to sit on it. Deciding to stop fighting her on this, he joins her, his feet almost dragging. He sits on her luggage, and she kneels beside him. However, he does not make a move to take off his tunic. Instead, he simply watches her open up her med-kit and pull out the necessary tools. Amongst her supplies he identifies a Medisensor, a pack of irrigation bulbs, a canteen of water and a clean rag, bandages, and a small tube of Bacta.

“A field cauterizer’s enough,” he tells her. That was what he had been planning to use on himself before she interrupted him. Medical supplies are rare and expensive these days, and if his injuries were not too bad, he would whip out the cauterizer for a quick fix.

“Do you want it to scar?” she asks, not looking at him.

“I don’t care about scars.”

“You should.”

“Says the woman with a huge blaster scar on her side,” he retorts.

Talia snaps her dark eyes at him. From the way she tilts her head up at him, he has a feeling she had forgotten that he is aware of the scars that decorate her abdomen. While he cleaned her Nexu wound back on Cholganna, he had been amazed that a woman dressed like nobility had allowed any traces of marks on her since the smallest amount of Bacta could have easily erased them. He thought that, maybe, she kept them as a badge of honor or as proof of combat. From the thin blemishes she has on her sides, he suspects they came from training with vibroblades. But it is her biggest scar, the one he had just mentioned, that intrigues him the most.

“You remember that?” she quietly asks. Her eyes focus on his visor.

He nods. “Just never brought it up. Where’d you get it?”

Her hand reaches over to where that old wound is, along her right hip, and ghosts her fingers across the material of her black tunic. Dropping her gaze so it lands on his chest, she says, “Clone War. Blaster wound on . . . in the Mid Rim.”

The revelation causes his brows to shoot up. He figures she must have been twelve or eleven at the time. “But you were just a kid,” he points out. “How’d you managed to survive that?”

She shrugs before picking up her Medisensor. “I had a good healer. Now, stop distracting me and let me see your shoulder.” She gives him a knowing look and nods at his tunic.

Of course, he wants to asks more questions, but it seems that Talia would prefer it if he dropped the matter. She sure is stubborn once she sets her mind on something. So, he gently slips his right arm out of his sleeve. He can feel the blood staining his tunic stick to his skin, and he grits his teeth when his injury begins to throb harder. With his arm free, he pulls his shirt over his shoulder.

Cold air tickles his exposed skin, and his toned-abdomen tightens when Talia gets closer to him. He squirms in his seat. It has been years since another person has seen him without his armor. Even though he is wearing most of his Beskar and clothes, he still feels naked under Talia’s attentive gaze. He looks around the room, at anything other than her, as she scans his wound.

“Hmm,” he hears her muse aloud. “It’s not that bad.”

“See?” he mutters. “Just a scratch.”

She wrinkles her up-turned nose at this and begins to clean the wound. “Tell me what happened,” she asks him. “You know, with the others. I left ZERO in the cockpit after Davan was killed.”

So, he gives her a short summary of the events that she missed out on. She nods and hums while wiping away the dry blood on his skin, and he finishes his report just as she reaches for a pack of irrigation bulbs.

“You threw them in your cell?” she chuckles. Carefully, she retrieves one bulb from the package; the delicate teardrop container rolls onto her open palm. About three times the size of a pearl, an irrigation bulb is filled with a clear, cleaning fluid that will disinfect his wound.

“Qin’s cell,” he corrects as he watches her guide the bulb’s nozzle all across his injury. The liquid is cool and even stings a little, but the feeling passes within a few seconds.

Next, she grabs a small tube of blue Bacta. His eyes veer around his ship as he waits for her to pour the thick liquid onto his wound, but when he feels Talia’s fingers glide across his skin, he flinches.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, no doubt thinking she must have pressed on his injury too hard.

“It’s fine,” he grits out as she continues to slather the Bacta on him. His left hand, which is hidden from her view at the moment, clenches into a tight fist.

Talia had not hurt him earlier. Her touch was—and still is—far too gentle. No, he flinched because he had not expected to feel her warm skin gliding across his. The tips of her fingers, though slightly calloused, are so tender that he is suddenly accosted by how . . . intimate this situation is. There is something pleasurable about how her skin runs over his, and it reminds him how much of a human being he is. People imagine him to be an emotionless killing machine while he wears his armor, and sometimes he can almost believe that about himself. But during moments like this, he knows that to be far from true. For years, he has denied himself the simplest pleasures in life, believing that they are unimportant to him. Yet, Talia’s fingers had sent a jolt through him, telling him that he is still a human who naturally craves personal touch.

“What happened here?” he suddenly asks. He needs to be distracted so he will stop focusing on how nice her fingers feel. “I mean, with the droid.”

Thankfully, Talia stops massaging the Bacta into his wound and begins wrapping his shoulder with a long bandage.

“Well,” she sighs, “I kept an eye on him like you wanted me to. I don’t think he was doing anything out of the ordinary by the way. He really was a clever droid,” she shares, tying a knot to secure his bandage. “But with my help, we were able to watch the prison’s cameras from where we were.”

“You slice computers?” he asks while slipping his arm through his sleeve.

“It’s a hobby,” she replies, putting away her medical supplies. “Oh, you did a great job taking out those security droids.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yes, it was. I haven’t been impressed like that in a while,” she says, her elegant accent painted with admiration. He feels his neck heat up from the compliment.

Over the next few minutes, she tells him her side of what happened while he changes his bloodied tunic for a fresh one. She even turns around as he switches shirts, which he really appreciates. He hears her repeat that she left the cockpit and ZERO after Xi’an killed Davan and decided to keep watch near the _Crest_ ’s floor hatch. Her voice is tense, and a part of him wonders if she holds the warden’s death against him, but he refrains from mentioning this. He does not want to know.

It seems that the baby had woken up around that time and figured out a way to escape his sleeping compartment. Knowing that he would not be going back to sleep for a while, Talia allowed him to wander around the ship.

“But I told him not to go to the cockpit and bother ZERO,” she shares with the bounty hunter.

“Let me guess,” he replies. “He did it anyways.”

“Yeah, he did,” she sighs apologetically. “We really need to work on his obedience.”

The baby must have caught the droid’s attention because shortly after he disappeared from Talia’s sight, he had returned with ZERO right on his heels. The killing machine had climbed down the ladder and started acting hostile towards her. She tried to convince it to leave Vandar alone, and before she knew it, ZERO was pointing a gun at her.

“He did what?” the bounty hunter sharply asks. He glances at the droid’s lifeless body as it litters the floor of his ship. His trigger-finger aches to blast ZERO to pieces.

“He didn’t shoot,” Talia explains from where she is sitting on her footlocker. “He, uh, he didn’t have time. You see . . . the youngling stopped him.”

“How’d he do that?” he questions, slipping his armor pieces back on.

Apparently, the kid used his powers to crush ZERO before stripping its head clean off its skinny body.

The story astounds his guardian so much that he stops sliding his right gauntlet on for a moment. He blinks at his companion then asks, “How did the kid know to do that to the droid?”

Talia runs her teeth over her lower lip. “You know kids: they pick up things without us knowing it.”

“Well,” he answers as he puts his gauntlet on, “he didn’t get that from me. You didn’t teach him that, right?”

“Maybe he saw something like that before you met him,” she offers with a shrug. “You did say he’s fifty years old.”

The bounty hunter hums at the idea. He knows there are things about his charge’s gift that he does not understand, but from what he knows, Vandar has not done anything this . . . violent before.

“We need to watch him,” he says. “I don’t want his power to get out of hand. Or let him think he can use it whenever he feels like it.”

“I’m glad we agree on this,” he hears Talia murmur.

“Did you know the crew was planning to turn on me?” he wonders, slipping his right glove back on. “Did ZERO let it slip?”

“No. But I knew they were up to something,” she admits. “Instinct and all.”

“ _I_ should’ve seen it coming,” he quietly says as he moves to stand next to the cockpit’s ladder.

“Why didn’t you contact me?” she asks.

He explains his reasons, and though she nods her head in understanding, he can tell she is far from pleased that he chose not to take the risk in reaching out.

“Today was a close call,” Talia states, and he detects disapproval in her voice. “And meeting Ran, knowing what you do for a living—it was . . .”

“Dishonorable?” he supplies, crossing his arms in front of him. She does not need to rub that in—he had been reminded of this all day.

“Yes,” she answers. “But I was going to say, ‘Eye-opening.’”

“Bet you’re regretting traveling with me, huh?” he verbally jabs, his tone on the edge of bitterness. When she says, ‘no,’ he blinks at her before dropping his hands to his sides. “No?” he repeats. “Why not?”

She sends him an amused smile. “And here I thought you’d be pleased.”

 _More like confused,_ he silently tells her.

“I think my instinct’s just as good as yours, _Mando_ ,” she observes aloud, her eyes shining. “If not better.”

“Oh, yeah?” he challenges. He crosses his arms again. “How so, _Tal_?”

He watches her fiddle with the end of her shawl before saying, “From the moment I met you, I had a good feeling about you. You didn’t strike me as the typical, backstabbing bounty hunter. And I was right.”

Her words shame him. If only she knew what he has done in the past, the people he has killed, the defenseless quarries he captured—and all for credits. He feels his head lower an inch or two, and his gaze drops to the floor.

“How can you be sure?” he wonders, slowly lifting his eyes to hers. He needs to see them, to figure out if she will answer him truthfully.

Talia stands up and walks over to him. As she grips the ladder to the cockpit, she gives him a small smile. With sincerity in her voice and kindness in her gaze, she whispers, “The youngling is proof that you have—deep down, past that armor of yours—a good heart. And a moral compass.” She pauses, one hand sliding up the ladder’s foot bars. “But I can’t lie and say that I approve of bounty hunting. It’s . . . it’s against my own code. But I won’t let that blind me from seeing the man you are—” She lightly taps a slim finger against his Iron Heart in the middle of chest-plate. “—right here.”

Without another word, she climbs up the ladder to join the baby in the cockpit, leaving with him the comforting scent of sweet cream and faint lemons in her wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said in my end note in the previous chapter, I would really like to know your opinion on how I incorporated Talia in “The Prisoner.” I am still a little on the fence on whether or not to let her continue to be in the last two episodes of Season 1, and as of a day ago, I admit I find myself leaning towards an option.
> 
> Here are my two ideas: (1) I can pull Talia out of the story and let Mando deal with Episodes 7 & 8 alone, like we see in the show, or (2) I can again insert her in the storyline and finish Season 1 with her in it. Which option interests you?


	19. Ret’urcye Mhi

Chapter XIX: _Ret’urcye Mhi_

About a week has passed since that debacle with Ran and the prison ship. The bounty hunter still regrets his part in it, but he tries to tell himself that the extra credits helped. Once he guided the _Crest_ back into the Outer Rim, he allowed himself and his companions to stop on a couple of less populated planets so they could all be released from the confines of the small ship. They even ventured in nearby secluded villages and enjoyed the natives’ cuisine, which seemed to interest both Talia and the baby. Who knew they would be daredevils in trying new food?

His shoulder wound is all healed, thanks to more Bacta and a non-strenuous routine. And Talia of course. She had prompted him to check it every day, even though he does not need her reminders. But he did so without voicing any complaints, grateful that she had not offered to tend to his injury herself. The first time she dressed it had been the only time, and he believes it is because she watched him re-dress his bandages by himself, an action that was easier to accomplish after he let his wound heal up for a couple of days.

So far, Talia has travelled with him and the kid for almost two weeks now. He watches her attend to Vandar and encourage him while he uses his gift. The little one has been able to lift up her footlocker several inches off the ground with his mind, and he had done so without slipping into unconsciousness. The Mandalorian is not sure how Talia managed to help the kid with that, but he is glad Vandar is not exhausted after his small exercises.

According to his internal clock it is now late evening as the _Crest_ sits on a large asteroid. A few hours ago, they found refuge in a field of space rocks so he can get some undisturbed sleep. For the past week he had been resting in the cockpit, concerned that Ran, if he survived, would hire people to track him down. Though Talia offered to keep watch while he slept, the bounty hunter insisted he monitor everything. That is, until tonight. It is time for his body to truly rest.

Talia had put the baby to bed about an hour ago. Like her usual routine, she is visiting him in the cockpit while Vandar sleeps in the main compartment below. With her feet crossed atop the left passenger seat, Talia has been asking the bounty hunter questions about the various jobs he had undertaken. At first, he did not want to humor her with answers, but after a while, he realized that she was simply trying to get to know him better. So, he gave in and even sat in Vandar’s designated seat, the right passenger chair, in order to face her.

The most recent question she posed to him was about the strangest thing he had to do or get in order to complete a bounty. Immediately, a certain run-in with a colony of Arvalan Jawas popped into his brain, and he told her about the item and the circumstances that surrounded the situation.

“An egg? Really?” she asks, her accent laced with disbelief. “They were going to trade you all of your ship’s parts back for _an egg_?”

With a smirk hidden behind his helmet, he answers, “Yeah. That was the deal a friend of mine was able to make.”

She cocks a dark eyebrow at him. “Nah, you’re pulling my leg.”

“Does it sound like I am?” he asks, comfortably crossing his arms.

“Okay then,” she says, though he can tell she is still having a hard time believing him. “It must have been a huge egg. You know, to be worth an entire ship-load of parts.”

He shrugs. “It was about the size of the kid.”

“That’s not very big.” She wraps her deep-red shawl around her shoulders before asking, “Well, what was so special about it then? Was it used for a ritual? Or did they want to hatch it themselves?” There is a twinkle in her eyes as she quips this, and his ears are filled with a playful chuckle.

“Nah, they wanted to eat it. You know, the yolk part.”

“That’s it?” she asks, jerking her head. “Those deranged Jawas. I’ll take it this particular egg was rare. Too rare for them to find on their own.”

“I guess it was rare. But they knew where one was,” he replies, remembering that he was forced to sit in the Jawas’ cramped vehicle as they escorted him to the nearest egg. “It belonged to a Mudhorn,” he shares.

“Ah, yes. I remember you mentioned that. I actually looked it up. Big animal,” she remarks. “So, how’d you steal the egg?”

“Wasn’t easy.”

For the next few minutes, he summarizes his fight with the Mudhorn and how the baby saved his life. Talia listens to him with rapt attention, her dark eyes focused on his visor. When he finishes, she merely hums to herself with a half-smile on her lips.

After several seconds, she says, “Thanks for telling me this. I figured sharing isn’t one of your favorite things to do.”

The small teasing smile she gives him is refreshing, reminding him that he is with a friend who has no intention to use this information against him.

“Well,” he answers, “it is . . . difficult for me.”

“Tell me about it.”

Her agreement surprises him. Ever since they met, Talia has volunteered some aspects in her life and past so freely and willingly. Sure, she keeps secrets still, but more than half the time, she is an open book.

“You make it look easy,” he bluntly states.

With a shrug, she confesses, “Well, believe it or not, I don’t usually open up very fast.”

 _Yeah, I don’t believe it,_ he thinks to himself.

“You know,” she continues, “you’re one of _the_ hardest people for me to figure out. Of course, the armor doesn’t help.” She gestures to his helmet before shifting in her chair so her slipper-covered feet are planted on the floor. “But I have a feeling I wouldn’t be able to read your face even if I could see it.”

 _I doubt it,_ he silently tells her. He knows just how unschooled his facial expressions can be—which is another reason why he likes wearing a helmet. People do not know what he is thinking or looking at. All they see is a blank head-covering with a stiff posture and a flat tone to match.

“You’re quite the lone wolf, aren’t you? A wanderer,” he hears her comment.

“I like the quiet that comes with being alone.”

Talia is fingering the end of her shawl, her gaze focused on the distraction. “With no roots to ground your life, some would say you’re a lost soul.”

“Just because I travel alone doesn’t mean I am,” he states. Uncrossing his arms, he sits up a little straighter.

_What is she getting at?_

“Traveling alone, being secluded from your people,” she muses aloud. “They can do things to a person. Like making you keep things close to your chest.”

_Yeah, tell me about it._

Instead, he wonders, “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

Her fingers go still. He watches her closely as she schools her expression. Donning a neutral face, she presses her lips together. When she does speak, her voice is painted with uncertainty as she says, “Mando? I . . . I need to—”

A loud beep from his computer rings through the air. It is shortly followed by an orchestra of beeps, prompting him to get up and slip into the pilot’s chair.

“Hold that thought,” he calls over his shoulder as he presses a few buttons to silence the high-pitched noises. “It’s a transmission,” he explains. “And it’s from the . . . the Expansion Territories.”

He receives the incoming message, and soon a blue hologram of R6-D12 appears in front of him. The droid’s cone-shaped head rotates left then right as it begins chirping and whistling loudly at him in its annoying binary language. The inside of the bounty hunter’s helmet is still able to translate R6’s words, and he reads, _“Master Traxell! I must speak with Lady Talia immediately!”_

“R6, I’m here,” she replies, now standing beside the bounty hunter. He can feel her leaning closer to him so her little bucket of bolts can see her, too. “What’s wrong, my friend?”

Before R6 answers, the Mandalorian cranes his neck to look at her and asks, “How’d the droid know which frequency to hail the _Crest_?”

Talia gives him a guilty smile. “Um, I might’ve allowed him to slice into your computer back on Onderon. Right after he delivered our luggage to the hangar.”

Hearing this causes his eyes to widen and his mouth to drop. _Sneaky woman and her blasted droid,_ he inwardly grumbles.

“Don’t give me that look, Mando,” she defends. “You were going to say ‘no’ if I asked.”

_You’re darn right I would have!_

“I’m sorry,” she says, her accent sincere in his ears. “If it makes you feel better, I honestly didn’t think R6 would reach out.”

A reprimand is on the tip of his tongue when the conniving droid spurts out more mechanical nonsense. He reads: _“Lady Talia, this is urgent! And private.”_

He feels Talia stiffen at the news. “May I have the cockpit alone?” she asks him. “He says his message is private.”

Not bothering to reveal to her that he knows exactly what R6 is saying, he simply nods at her. “Fine,” he grits out before exchanging places with her. As he climbs down the cockpit’s ladder, he watches Talia slide into the pilot’s chair.

When he reaches the main compartment of his ship, he finds that Vandar is still asleep, safely tucked away in his box-cradle next to Talia’s footlocker and bedroll. He glances around the belly of the _Crest_ , not sure what to do to keep him occupied without making too much noise. Since he can still read what R6 is saying to Talia, he _could_ stand close enough to the ladder and hear what was so important for the droid to contact her. But he tosses that idea aside because it is intruding on Talia’s privacy, and he will _not_ stoop low enough to eavesdrop.

So, he keeps his curiosity in check by sitting on a cargo box and cleans his pistol. In the next twelve minutes—and yes, he is keeping track—he disassembles his weapon before freeing its cylinders from dust and grime with a wet rag.

It is only after seventeen minutes have passed that Talia calls from the cockpit and asks if he can join her. Quickly, he puts his gun back together again, noting that he will have to finish cleaning it later.

In a few moments, he climbs up the ladder and is standing in the cockpit. Talia, who has surrendered the pilot’s chair, is now sitting on her designated seat on the left side. He notices that she is studying her slippers as her fingers play with the end of her shawl.

“What was that about?” he asks her, leaning against the cockpit’s doorway and crossing his arms.

She does not raise her eyes to meet his as she answers, “An old friend of mine has been trying to reach out to me.”

When she does not expand on the information, he prompts, “So, R6 had connected the two of you.”

He watches her nod in confirmation, and she remains silent. Impatient to know what she is withholding from him, he opens his mouth, on the verge of pressing her again, but he stops when he sees her run her teeth over her bottom lip. He recognizes that as one of his friend’s tells, so he closes his mouth. She seems to do this habit whenever she is trying to form the right words on a serious subject. And it also means that what she has to share with him is difficult for her to voice.

“Just come out and say it,” he urges, his tone quiet. He then braces himself.

“Well, there is no easy way to say it,” she admits. Taking in a deep breath, she finally glances at him. Her dark eyes look dim as she reveals, “I . . . I have to leave you. Both of you. A friend of mine needs help.”

Not expecting that, his arms automatically drop to his sides. He pushes himself from leaning against the doorframe and stares at her. “But you . . . you’re the kid’s nanny. This is what you wanted,” he reminds her, confusion in his tone.

“I know, but I can’t ignore my friend’s call for help,” she argues. She rises to her feet, her gaze fixated on his visor.

“What’s wrong with her?” he demands, using a similar tactic that Cara Dune had done to him back on Sorgan.

“Him,” Talia corrects, and he rolls his eyes. Of course, it _would_ be a man. Is this one head over heels with her, too? “And nothing’s wrong exactly,” she clarifies. “He just . . . needs my input in a serious matter about . . .” She presses her lips together so hard that they turn a lighter shade. “I’m sorry, _ner burc’ya_ *. I can’t say. It’s not my secret to tell.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

She is able to hold his gaze for a few seconds before dropping hers. The bounty hunter is not sure what to think about this bomb she has thrown at him. What could be so important that Talia is willing to abandon the baby?

“What’s his name?” he asks, trying to stop from clenching his jaw.

“Daggeron Locke,” she replies, sagging onto her seat again. “He’s an old Rebel contact of mine. He was a part of the missions I was involved in.”

“Like on Mustafar?” When she gives him a surprised look, he admits, “Ryk’ken told me about that mission.”

After nodding slowly, she clears her throat. “Yes, Dagg was there. He’s retired from fighting—even though he’s at his prime. But right now, this is a personal matter to him. And . . . I need to go.”

“Why don’t I join you?” he offers in a clipped tone. “You might need backup. And it’s not like I’m doing anything.”

A soft smile plays on her lips. “I’d love for you to come. And the youngling would like it, I’m sure. But I have to go alone,” she reveals. “I’m sorry. Maybe I can explain later.”

 _Why does she have to make things so mysterious? And difficult?_ he inwardly grumbles. _And here I thought we left all this secrecy behind on Onderon._

He has every intention to keep on complaining; however, he is soon accosted with a memory of a conversation he had with Ryk’ken about Talia:

 _“There are times when I don’t think she’s being very honest with me,”_ he had admitted to the Viceroy. _“She can be like an open book one moment then a clam all of a sudden.”_

 _“Sounds like Tallie. But you’re not alone, Traxell. I’ve felt that, too. And I grew up with her,”_ Ryk’ken chuckled. _“But everyone has a chapter they just don’t read out loud. And she’s no exception.”_

 _One chapter?_ he silently scoffs. _More like a whole book she doesn’t read._

A part of him is offended that she will not trust him with this Daggeron and the reason why she has to leave. True, she said the situation was not her secret to share, yet was she being truthful with him? Maybe she _can_ tell him but does not think he will like it.

“You said you wanted to help the kid,” he points out, his gravelly voice a little too gruff. “Now, you’re leaving him.”

“But I knew Dagg before I met either of you,” she reasons, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “And I’m honor-bound to help him.”

At the mention of the principled commitment his annoyance and frustration deflate. He scolds himself to stop thinking that she is abandoning their joint-mission to protect the kid because she wants to. From the brave face she puts on and the lack of sparkle in her eyes, he knows Talia is hating the prospect of being separated from the little one. As a Mandalorian like him, she cannot simply turn off her code of honor when it becomes inconvenient.

 _“Burc’ya vaal burk’yc, burc’ya veman_ * _,”_ he murmurs the old phrase with a defeated sigh.

 _(_ * _pronounced: BOOR-sha vahl BOOT-keesh, BOOR-shah veh-MAHN; literal translation: “A friend during danger is a true friend”)_

 _“Ni vercopa at cuyir ibac_ * _,”_ she murmurs.

 _(_ * _pronounced: Nee vair-KOH-pa aht KOO-yeer ee-BAK; translation: “I hope to be that”)_

He wants to squirm at how . . . friendly this feels, so he heads for his pilot’s chair and takes a seat. “When do you have to go?” he asks.

“R6 is flying my ship to the planet Shimia,” she replies. “He said he’ll be there in three days.”

“That’s fast,” he remarks, staring at the asteroid field floating around them. “Considering where the droid’s coming from.”

“Yes. R6 and I spared no expense in getting an excellent hyperdrive and engine for my ship.”

“So, it’s ready then?”

“Physically, it is,” he hears her answer. “But he’s upgrading our database and other computers systems while he’s traveling.”

“Never heard of Shimia,” he comments before entering the world’s name in his navigation computer.

“It’s a small planet. Kind of forgettable.”

“Where will you be going after that?”

“I’m to meet Daggeron on Nar Shadaa. But from there?” She pauses. “He hasn’t told me yet.”

His nav-computer beeps, alerting him that it has pulled up Shimia on his monitor. He waves Talia over to him and presses a button so a hologram of the planet can float before him. As his companion stands beside him, his eyes take in the aqua oceans and emerald lands of Shimia.

“It’s in the Outer Rim. Near the Corellian Run,” he informs her. “We’re about two days from it.”

“It says,” Talia notes, pointing at a monitor, “that Shimia’s in its last couple weeks of autumn. I doubt the fields are green right now.”

“The population’s ten million,” he mutters under his breath. “Too many people for my liking.”

“Not just people,” she corrects him. “The Pacithips live here,” she tells him.

His mind conjures up the sentient species who are, apparently, native to Shimia. The Pacithips are short and squat beings with two legs and rough skin like elephants. They also have long, thick tails. Their faces have trunk-like snouts, four nostrils, and two ornate tusks. The skin color of the Pacithips vary from blue to green to gray. From what the Mandalorian knows of this species, they are quite adaptable to their environments and have the reputation of being very broad-minded. A large population has settled on Tatooine, if his memory serves him correctly.

“So,” he remarks, “this is where they come from.”

“If you want,” Talia begins, “you can drop me off at the nearest star port from here. I don’t want to be an inconvenience. I’ll find my way to—”

“Taking you to Shimia’s the least I can do,” he states, his gloved fingers flying across his control panel. In no time, he sets a course for the planet so they can take off from the asteroid in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Talia murmur, pulling away from the terminal. “I wish you both can come with me.”

His ears pick up the sound of her walking towards the ladder. He swivels his pilot’s chair and cranes his neck to look at her, asking, “What were you going to say? You know, before R6 called.”

Talia turns, her braid dangling behind her. “It doesn’t matter right now.”

Tilting his head at her, he prods, “Sounded important to me.”

“When I get back, I’ll tell you. That is . . .” She drops her gaze to the floor. “If you’ll take me back.”

He stops himself from immediately saying, ‘Course I will,’ and bites the inside of his cheek. Despite the fact that his brain understands why she is planning to leave, something in his chest is bothered that she cannot put her foot down and insist that this Daggeron Locke allow her to bring a fellow Mando and a harmless child with her. His previous annoyance returns, and he embraces it.

Gruffly, he replies, “I still owe you a debt, Kex. How can I pay it if you’re not here?” He ignores the wince that flashes across her face by swiveling his chair and facing forward again.

“Indeed,” he hears her whisper before descending the ladder.

A part of his brain reprimands him for sounding so cold, but he argues that she had it coming. _What’d she expect?_ he thinks. _Sure, honor’s important. But she’s supposed to honor the agreement_ we _made. Letting her tag along is one way I can pay off my debt._

His thoughts drift to the baby, and he releases a sigh. He is not looking forward to explaining to him why his nanny is leaving.

 _I’ll let her do that,_ he decides. _I’m not the one who’s going away._

He stays in the cockpit for another hour, staring into the blackness of space, trying to imagine his life before his companions. But as the seconds tick by, he finds it harder and harder to remember.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Region: Outer Rim Territories_

_Sector: Dalchon Sector_

_System: Shimia System_

_Coordinates: R-17_

Two days have passed, and the bounty hunter is not sure whether to feel relieved or dread. Talia has been quiet again, which is partially his fault. He cannot help but feel frustrated at her, and he knows she senses it from him, especially from his lack of conversation. While she moves from one part of the _Crest_ to the other like a Kath hound with her tail between her legs, he marches across the floor with firm steps. A part of him wants to clear the air, to end the unease between them, but his stubbornness gets the better of him, and he lets Talia treat him as if she is walking on eggshells whenever he is around. She gives him his space and does not keep him company in the evenings—a change in their routine which he, much to his chagrin, finds himself missing.

Meanwhile, the baby is oblivious of his guardians’ tense behavior. He waddles along the ship as if everything is fine, finding comfort and attention from each of them.

 _The poor kid doesn’t know what’s coming,_ the Mandalorian thinks to himself as he steers the _Crest_ into Shimia’s atmosphere. Sitting behind him are his ward and Talia, both in their respective seats.

He concentrates on flying to the coordinates that R6 had sent him. His gaze takes in the sapphire oceans then the crowded cities stretching their influences across the planet. Thankfully, R6 had chosen a secluded area to pick up his mistress, an open field nestled between an ocean cliffside and snowless mountains.

“Still too many people here,” he mutters under his breath.

“The next town is fifty miles away,” Talia’s accent floats to him.

“It’s not far enough,” he replies, preparing his ship to land.

As he eases the _Crest_ onto the ground, he hears Talia unfastening her seatbelt and moving towards the baby. When the ship heaves a sigh and its owner shuts down the engines, Talia has already descended the ladder.

 _Someone’s anxious to get off,_ a bitter voice says to him.

 _Wouldn’t you be?_ another voice asks. It sounds like his Tribe’s Armorer. _Haven’t you given her the cold-shoulder long enough?_

He climbs down the ladder, reprimanded enough for one day—even though it is just early afternoon. He has been acting like a sensitive teenager, and he should know better. So, determined to somehow smooth things over with his fellow Mando, he says, “Why don’t we look around for a while? Let the little womp-rat do some exploring.”

When Talia turns to him, the baby in her arms, she seems surprised by how friendly his tone was. Standing beside her packed footlocker, she smiles at him then nods in agreement. The kid has always been one of their strongest links, and he is grateful that she accepted his olive-branch.

Pressing a button on his gauntlet, he opens up the main cargo hatch of the _Crest_. Its large door and ramp creak in protest after being undisturbed for the past couple of weeks. Golden light streams through the doorway, making the ship seem warm and sunny. He moves to the top of the ramp, and Talia stands beside him.

Before them are golden fields as far as the eye can see, stretching from the East to the West. The tall, knee-high grass bends in the murmuring wind, their pointy ends reaching for the blue sky. In the distance is a mountain range also covered in grass. Though, the Mandalorian would not call them mountains—more like intimidating foothills. He descends the ramp and can hear the rolling of waves crashing against the cliffs. Turning to the South, he is able to see a sliver of the ocean with fluffy clouds parading on the horizon.

“It’s lovely here,” Talia remarks, putting the baby down. Vandar soon disappears in the tall grass, making his nanny follow him. “Don’t go too far,” she tells the baby, her elegant accent carrying on the breeze. “Or we’ll lose you. Mando! Help me keep an eye on him.”

When he stops staring at the endless fields, he finds Talia already several yards away from him. He follows the path of walked-on grass that she and the kid have made, his gray cloak fluttering in the wind. His long strides reunite them all in no time.

Today, Talia is wearing a faded blue tunic. It has a somewhat high collar with side buttons, half-sleeves, and a hem that reaches her waist. Down below are a pair of brown trousers, boots, and a belt and holster—the last two items containing her DE-10 blaster pistol.

Wrapped around her neck like a scarf is a royal blue shawl; it lifts up into the air as if it is trying to fly away and disappear into the ocean. Talia has braided her dark hair, and he can see it sway against her back. As she stands amidst the golden field, she reminds him of an azure water nymph who does not belong in this autumn-dry grassland. Talia points a leather-covered hand towards the foothills while the other holds Vandar.

“I think I see a tint of greenery over there,” she remarks.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

He notes that Vandar is not paying attention to what Talia is showing them. Instead, he is holding onto her gold necklace’s emerald gem in his little hands. How can he still be bedazzled by it after staring at the green stone for as long as he has? The bounty hunter then sees that Talia is also wearing her Iron Heart pendant which is fastened to its black cord. Its ebony and bronze metals gleam in the afternoon sun and twinkle at him, reminding him of the warmth and affection from the two eighteen-year-old Mandos who had given it to her.

A cool wind picks up, tearing through the grassland; it is crisp and almost drives away the sun’s warmth. He can feel his cloak tugging behind him, and when he glances at Talia, he sees her blue shawl slipping from around her neck. He blinks, and it is gone, flying on the wind.

“Oh, stars!” she mutters, suddenly handing him the baby before running after her shawl.

He watches her race across the field, her dark braid swaying left and right like a pendulum. Vandar squirms in his grasp so much that his guardian is about to lose his grip on him. He hears the baby whine as his eyes are fixed on the blue shawl bouncing on top of the dried grass. The wind is luring it and Talia northwards, to the foothills.

When Vandar releases another whine, the bounty hunter says, “Okay, fine. We’ll go after her.”

With long strides, he trails behind his fellow Mando who is still having a hard time apprehending her runaway shawl. But as he nears her, he is beginning to wonder if she is even trying to catch it. She has stopped running after it and is now jogging. Though he is aware that Talia is quite fit, he doubts she is getting tired. Closing the distance between them, he sees her lift her gaze to the blue sky and begins to slow down.

He is now within earshot and calls out, “Do I have to get that shawl myself?”

At this, she twists herself around and sends him a shy smile. “Just enjoying the open space,” she replies before facing forward again. With the sun shining directly on her, it makes her dark molasses hair look as light as chestnut.

The baby giggles in his arms and points ahead of them. Since the wind has died down, Talia’s shawl has settled atop the grass, its shimmering material tangled in the land’s flimsy embrace.

Seeing that Talia has finally captured it, the little one squirms again in his guardian’s arms. So, the bounty hunter gives in and sets him on the ground. Vandar waddles through the knee-high grass towards his nanny. The bounty hunter follows close behind, not wanting the green-skinned child to disappear from his view. Trying to find Vandar in this tall field will be like trying to find a needle in a haystack—it will be a complete nightmare.

Together, they reach Talia who has now securely wrapped her shawl around her head. She kneels beside Vandar and watches him chase a grasshopper.

“So,” he wonders, “why Shimia?”

“I don’t know,” she says, her eyes still on the baby. “You’ll have to ask R6.”

Vandar continues to chase the grasshopper, but the insect disappears in the vast field. His pointy ears drop, and he shuffles back to them with slumped shoulders.

A soft beeping penetrates the peaceful wind. Talia pulls out her Imagecaster from her pants’ pocket. When she presses the middle of the round device, a hologram of R6 appears. But since it is so bright outside, the droid’s image is almost hard to see.

“Yes, R6?”

The bounty hunter reads, _“I’m leaving Shimia’s spaceport, my Lady. I should be there in approximately eight minutes.”_

“All right, my friend.” The hologram flickers off, and Talia stashes her Imagecaster back into her pocket. “He’s on his way,” she informs him, picking up the child.

“Let’s head back,” he replies.

The tension that had settled between them the last two days returns because of R6’s call. But, the Mandalorian realizes, it is not as strong as before. If anything, it is overshadowed by Talia’s imminent departure.

He clears his throat. “How long you planning to be gone?”

“I’m not sure. If it’s more than a month,” she says, “I’ll let you know?”

“Sounds good to me.”

They reach the _Crest_ again. Talia sets the baby on the ramp and heads for her black footlocker and her bedroll. While the bounty hunter lingers at the bottom of the metal walkway, he watches her push her luggage closer to the door, making sure her bedroll does not fall off it.

A soft hum of an engine penetrates the air, causing the Mandalorian to search the blue skies. He spies a pearly ship descending from the heavens. It is a lengthy vessel, and sleek. As it grows closer, it reminds him of a falling star, with its pointy head and long tail behind it. Its thrusters create a harsh wind as the ship lands on the field, its port side facing the back of the _Crest_. The Mandalorian can feel his cloak flap, tugging at his neck, and his ears are filled with its roaring engine.

As the ship eventually quiets down, he surveys its outside. It is bigger than _Starlight_ , Talia’s previous vessel, and it is not a shimmering silver. Its plating is not smooth, giving him a clear view of its surface’s grooves and bumps. When it was in the sky, he thought its color was a pearly white, shiny and glowing. Now settled amidst a golden field, he sees that is it more of a grayish white, slightly dull but still good-looking. The ship has no “wings” protruding from its body like _Starlight_ ; instead, it is elongated with the cockpit on one end and—he assumes—the cargo hatch on the other. He figures this model has barely two levels in it, which makes him curious as to how many compartments are inside.

He senses Talia next to him. Glancing her way, he finds the child in her arms, his big brown eyes also surveying her ship.

“Nice ride,” he comments.

“Thanks. I think so, too.”

The side-door of her vessel opens, and a ramp lowers to the ground. He can see an orange and white astromech droid waiting underneath the threshold.

“What do you call it?” he asks. He watches R6 roll down the walkway, pulling a flatbed cart behind it.

“I haven’t christened her yet. I’m still trying to choose a name that fits her,” Talia admits. “But I’m open to suggestions.”

His gaze roams across its grayish-white plating. In his mind’s eye, he thinks of what it looked like as it flew from the sky.

“It reminded me of a meteor,” he remarks. “You know, when it was coming down to land.”

“It did, didn’t it?” Her accent sounds reflective.

“Something _Star_. Or _Comet_ ,” he recommends.

“I think you’re right. Perhaps I’ll give her a name like that,” she says. R6 is only a few yards away from them.

“What color do you think that is?” he queries. He is sure she can come up with a better description than whitish-gray.

Talia hums for a moment, thinking. “Porcelain. Alabaster. Powder? Why?”

With a shrug, he replies, “Maybe you can use its color in the name.”

“Would you like to see inside?” she asks, and he can hear pride in her voice.

Though a part of him wants to, he shakes his head. “Maybe next time. But how big is your cockpit?”

“Big enough to seat six chairs,” she answers just as R6 approaches, chirping and whistling excitedly.

The bounty hunter reads: _“Lady Talia! So good to see you! Are you ready to leave for Nar Shadaa?”_

“Hold onto your circuits,” she laughs, putting Vandar on the ground. She then pats the droid on its cone-shaped head. “Let’s get my footlocker onboard first.”

At this, the bounty hunter leads the way up the ramp of his ship. He can hear R6 chatting away to his mistress, but the man ignores the words inside his helmet. With Talia’s help, they both lift her luggage and set it on the flatbed that the droid had pulled into the _Crest_. After Talia places her bedroll on top, she signals for R6 to transport it back to her nameless ship.

As the astromech follows her instructions, she kneels on the hard floor right in front of Vandar. The baby looks at her expectantly and raises his tiny arms at her. With a bittersweet smile, she picks him up.

Standing beneath the cargo door’s threshold, the bounty hunter watches her give Vandar a hug before pressing a kiss on his wrinkly, green head.

“It’s time, youngling,” she says to him. “This really isn’t goodbye, okay? I’ll be back before you know it.” She then whispers something in his ear, and his guardian cannot make it out.

With another smile, she puts Vandar down. Turning to the bounty hunter, she takes a deep breath. “I guess this is it, huh? I . . . I’m—”

“Don’t apologize again, Kex,” he interrupts, trying to sound annoyed at her. He straightens his shoulders and clears his suddenly tight throat. “I get it: honor demands for you to help an old friend. This Daggeron Locke better be worth it.”

“He will be,” she assures him. With a teasing smile that looks forced to him, she quips, “I was actually going to say that I’ll miss our conversations.” He smirks behind his helmet at her attempted humor; he had been an awful conversational partner these past couple of days. “Take care of yourself, okay?” she asks, her voice soft. “And try to stay out of trouble.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promises. “But you know the kid: trouble finds him.”

She chuckles at this. “Yeah, I do know.”

His brain scours for something else to say. He wants to apologize for how unfair he has been, but the words are all jumbled together. Licking his lips, he blurts out, “Um, you should . . . Just be careful, all right?”

The nod she gives him is enough of a promise for him, and he feels the tension in his muscles ease.

“I might check in every now and then.”

After he returns her nod, Talia steps closer to him, and he meets her halfway. Instinctively, he lays his right hand on her left shoulder as she does the same with him. He can feel her body-heat warm his fingers while her hand radiates comfort as it rests on his left shoulder. He bends forward a little so she will not have to go too much on her tiptoes. When her forehead presses against his helmet, he allows his eyes to close. He reminds himself that this is not the first time they had to say ‘goodbye’ and that Fate always seems to throw them together.

 _“_ _Ret’urcye mhi_ * _,”_ Talia whispers, her elegant accent sprinkled with sadness.

 _(_ * _pronounced: ray-TOOR-shay-MEE; literal translation: “Maybe we’ll meet again”; meaning: “Goodbye”)_

 _“Ret’urcye mhi_ * _,”_ he repeats. His voice sounds more gravelly than normal.

Time slows down, yet it also flies by. Before he knows it, Talia is pulling away from him. Reluctantly, he drops his hand at the same time she does. He hears the baby whine at them, probably feeling left out, the little ham.

Talia gives him another nod and puts on a brave smile for Vandar. Then, she descends the ramp. Shimia’s sun shines down on her, and the wind begins to tug at her shawl and faded blue tunic. As she walks towards her ship, the bounty hunter watches her tighten her shawl around her head. She glances behind her and waves at Vandar who, frowning, now just realizes that she is leaving him. The kid starts to waddle down the ramp with every intention to follow her.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” his guardian exclaims.

He picks up his charge, but Vandar tries to wiggle out of his hold. He releases a loud whine then glares up at him when the Mandalorian tightens his grip on him.

“Hey, just let her go,” he says to him. “She has some things to take care of.”

Raising his eyes, he sees Talia climbing up her ship’s ramp. She spares them another glance and a wave before she disappears from sight. The ship’s engines begin to rumble; its thrusters create a wind that aggressively blows across the golden grassland. Less than a minute later, the long ship ascends into the air. He spies Talia in one of the pilot’s chairs, and he wonders if she is controlling the ship or if that job is R6’s for the time being.

The vessel slowly turns around and leaps into the sky. Still carrying the baby, he watches it fly farther and farther away until it is a white dash in the blue heavens. He focuses on it until the ship disappears completely.

At that moment, his comms beep. He checks his gauntlet and sees that Talia is hailing him. Curious if she left something behind, he presses a button, accepting the incoming transmission.

_“Mando?”_

“You can’t miss the kid already,” he pokes at her, his tone flat with a hint of teasing. “You just left like, what? Two minutes ago?”

Hearing her chuckle over the comms does nothing to replace how lively it sounds in person. _“No, not that,”_ she assures him. _“Before R6 gets us in hyperspace, I wanted to tell you that I think I have a name for my ship.”_

“Already? That was fast.”

 _“Well, you inspired me, my_ ori’vod* _. I think I’ll call her the_ Alabaster Star _.”_

 _(_ * _pronounced: OH-ree-VOD; translation: “special friend”)_

He rolls the new name in his head. A half-smile spreads across his lips. “The _Alabaster Star_ ,” he repeats. “I like it.”

 _“I knew you would,”_ she says, and he can hear the smile in her accent.

The transmission suddenly crackles, telling him that Talia has now entered hyperspace. The baby makes a noise that sounds like a sad question. He tilts his head at Vandar and finds a pair of unhappy brown eyes staring at him.

“She’ll be back,” he tells his ward. “And if she doesn’t, we’ll find her, okay?” When Vandar blinks up at him, confused, the Mandalorian confides, “I stashed a tracker in her footlocker.”

He is not going to leave things to Fate. Not when he knows the little womp-rat will miss his nanny. Besides, he needs to pay off his debt to her. Yet, deep down, he knows that he wants to be able to find his fellow Mando without any problems, and on his own. The tracker he had planted on her is one of his best—he made sure of that.

“Call it insurance,” he mutters before re-entering the _Crest_.

* * *

Shimia and a member of its native species, a Pacithhip:

Talia's Attire:

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Hello, dear Readers!

For the past two chapters I’ve admitted that I was on the fence on whether or not to incorporate Talia in the last two episodes of Season 1 of “The Mandalorian.” My two chapters based on “The Prisoner” episode was an experiment to see if Talia would be well-received. From the comments that some of you kindly posted, I’m pleased to learn that you liked her interactions with the show’s characters.

I had voiced two ideas of mine in the end notes of Chapters 17 & 18 to either keep Talia for the rest of Season 1’s story or to pull her out so Mando can deal with Episodes 7 & 8 alone like we see in the show. I’ve read the comments posted, but most importantly, I’ve thought long and hard on which option to choose. From my latest chapter (“ _Ret’urcye Mhi_ ”), you found out that I’ve decided to temporarily remove Talia from the story. And I’ve chosen this for two strong reasons.

Firstly, I want to be able to enjoy watching Ep. 7 & 8 without thinking, “Talia would be here doing such-and-such.” Or, “She would say this-and-that.” I know that what I’ve planned for her would distract me from taking any kind of pleasure whenever I re-watch Mando shoot stormtroopers or the baby use the Force to push back fire. Knowing me, I’ll find those episodes lacking and wouldn’t be able to just sit back and watch them.

But then, you may wonder why I inserted Talia in “The Prisoner.” It’s because Talia’s presence in that episode is kind of behind-the-scenes. I didn’t alter the main storyline; instead, I just added a few deleted scenes so to speak. However, if I incorporated her in Ep. 7 & 8, there will be, I believe, _major_ changes in the storyline—changes that you’ll discover later.

The second reason why I’ve decided to pull her out is because I have a couple of more tricks up my sleeve before I end Part 3. I want to reveal them on my terms, on a planet of my choosing, and on my story’s timetable. If I did so during Ep. 7 & 8, I would be rushed with all the action set by the show. And if I chose not to disclose them during those episodes, then the tricks will be put on hold, much to my frustration because I’m anxious to move past Season 1 and to finish Part 3 before the second season comes out.

I hope I haven’t disappointed you, my Readers. If it is any consolation, I plan to give a summary of what my story might’ve looked like if I kept Talia in the final two episodes. The idea is one I can’t let go of, a dream that I can look at fondly yet not think about too deeply. Naturally, I’ll post that summary up _after_ I’ve completed Part 3. Think of it as a bonus chapter.

I want to thank you for your comments, your Kudos, and your loyalty to the stories I’ve shared with you all. I’m so grateful for your readership and encouragement, and I’m deeply humbled at how well-received my “Mandalorian Legacy” Series is. But I’m especially blown away at how so many of you have voiced your support and fondness for Talia. She is by far my favorite original character in all my writings, and I’m thrilled that you have grown as attached to her as I have.

Again, thank you for reading. I look forward to hearing what you think as I continue to post my upcoming chapters. I estimate Part 3 to have 21-23 chapters. And who knows? I may be able to start Part 4 a few days before Season 2’s first episode is released. Fingers crossed!

’Till next time!

xx SillyRomantic4Ever


	20. One Identity for Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pretty much wrote this in a day. I couldn't stop, and I'm quite proud of this chapter. I hope you all enjoy it!

Chapter XX: One Identity for Another

It has been almost two weeks since Talia left them on Shimia, and the Mandalorian is trying not to keep track. Not this time. He is close to convincing himself that it is nice to have the _Crest_ all to himself again—the baby hardly counts because he is so small. At night, he can remove his helmet and breathe in the fresh air in the lonely cockpit. No Talia means more privacy. And more privacy means no need to fill up awkward silences.

However, the baby has been having a harder time adjusting to his nanny’s absence. He had been restless for the first few days, wandering around the ship with nothing to keep him occupied. Every morning for over a week, Vandar would wake up from his box-cradle, expecting to see her on her side of the _Crest_ ’s main compartment. His guardian would ignore the looks of disappointment on his green face whenever Vandar saw him instead of Talia.

As a form of distraction, the Mandalorian has hopped from planet to planet every few days or so. He would take the kid with him, and together, they would find a diner or cantina so Vandar could eat some fresh food and enjoy the new sights and sounds.

The days are not so bad. If anything, the Mandalorian feels as if nothing has really changed. The nights, though. Well, he admits that he misses having an adult to talk to. Talia said she would check in with them, but he has not received any transmissions, pre-recorded or live. A voice tells him that he can be the one to reach out first, yet his stubbornness always stomps on the idea. He is not like Ryk’ken, always needing to know where she is or who she is with. Talia is a smart Mando with sharp instincts and good training; she can take care of herself. Besides, he did not say _he_ will keep in touch.

Behind him, he can hear the baby lightly snoring. The kid had finally settled down after an hour of coaxing on his guardian’s part. He finds himself wondering what Talia did to get Vandar to fall asleep so quickly. Does she run her fingers from one tip of his pointy ears to the other? Or does she hum that peaceful, meditative melody he had heard from her a few times? What was her secret?

 _Well, really doesn’t matter,_ he thinks to himself. _He’s asleep now._

The Mandalorian is sitting in his pilot’s chair flying the _Crest_ across the stars. His nav-computer is searching for another planet that may distract Vandar. The Outer Rim is a vast territory, and it is only a matter of time until another world fills up both of their attentions.

Static reaches his ears. Then, a blue flicker catches his eyes. Lifting his gaze, he sees that his holo-projector is receiving a message. Against his will, he hopes it is Talia, finally following through on her promise to check in. But his optimism disintegrates when the hologram takes the form of a man—of his old Guild boss, Greef Karga no less.

Shrouded in a bluish-gray hue, Greef does not seemed to have changed at all over the last three months. His dark skin glows with health, and his black mustache is smartly trimmed. There are no rips nor stains on his leather vest, and his cloak is fastened securely behind his back.

 _“My friend,”_ Greef starts, his tone welcoming. _“If you are receiving this transmission, that means you are alive. You might be surprised to hear this, but I am alive, too.”_ The attempted humor does not even earn Greef a half-smile from the bounty hunter. _“I guess we can call it even.”_

Since when have they truly been friends? The Guild boss only called him that because he wanted to stay on the Mandalorian’s good side. Back then, it did not bother him. But after now knowing what genuine friendship is, which was made possible due to his abrupt exit from Nevarro (compliments of Greef himself), the bounty hunter frowns at how flippant the word is spoken by his ex-boss.

 _“A lot has happened since we last saw each other,”_ he hears Greef inform him—as if he really cares. _“The man who hired you is still here, and his ranks of ex-Imperial guards have grown. They have imposed despotic rule over my city, which has impeded the livelihood of the Guild.”_

 _Not my problem,_ he silently tells him.

_“We consider him an enemy . . .”_

_You should._

_“. . . but we cannot get close enough to take him out.”_

_Too bad._

_“If you would consider one last commission, I will very much make it worth your while.”_

The suggestion causes the bounty hunter to cock an eyebrow at the recording. After what happened with Ran and the other mercs, credits do not interest him if it means the kid will be put in danger. He already learned his lesson.

 _“You have been successful so far in staving off their hunters, but they will not stop until they have their prize,”_ Greef continues.

 _Get to the point. I don’t have all night,_ the bounty hunter inwardly growls. He is tempted to just cut off the transmission right there and then.

 _“So, here is my proposition,”_ the holographic man reveals after his lengthy introduction. _“Return to Nevarro.”_

 _No,_ he automatically thinks.

_“Bring the child as bait.”_

_Definitely no._

_“I will arrange an exchange and provide loyal Guild members as protection. Once we get near the client, you kill him, and we both get what we want.”_

The Mandalorian rolls his eyes. First, it is “we” then “you” and back to “we” again. Of course, _he_ has to do all the work and get his hands dirty just so Greef can thrive as the formidable bounty hunter manager. But why should he help? The other man should have known better than to get involved with ex-Imperials in the first place. The Mandalorian doubts there is anything Greef can say that will convince him to even “consider one last commission.” It is obviously a trap.

 _“If you succeed,”_ the holographic boss attempts to reason with him, _“you keep the child, and I will have your name cleared with the Guild, for a man of honor should not be forced to live in exile.”_

The final sentence makes him clench his teeth. _Darn you, Greef,_ he inwardly curses. A scowl is already forming on his lips.

 _“I await your arrival with optimism.”_ The transmission flickers off.

 _Haar’chak_ * _, Greef! Darn you, you son of a Hutt!_

 _(_ * _pronounced: HAR-chak; translation: “Damn it”)_

Anger towards his former boss simmers within his blood like a fever. Greef knows how to reel the Mandalorian in, and the ploy irritates him more than a bad rash. To restore his honor, and not just with the Guild, is more alluring and more valuable to him than a shipload of credits. He does not regret saving the child from Greef’s client; he knows he broke the Guild’s Code. But deep down, he hated that his reputation has been tainted ever since.

His instincts whisper that this is a set-up. He is not the only one whose name got ruined; in order for the Guild to thrive under Greef’s leadership, Greef needs to restore the bounty hunting business’ reputation and reinforce their Code. A part of the Mandalorian does not blame his ex-boss for luring him back to Nevarro. He feels a twinge of respect for him. Unlike Ran and his old mercenary crew, Greef and the Guild have at least _some_ kind of Code. That is the main reason why he had stuck with the group for so long.

 _Until the kid came,_ he reminds himself.

For the past couple of minutes, the Mandalorian has been looking ahead at the vastness of space, but he had not truly been paying attention to anything. He then turns his chair to the right so he can glance at Vandar. The gifted baby is still sleeping in his box-cradle without a care in the galaxy. When he had first left Nevarro, he had doubted if rescuing Vandar, breaking the Code, was worth all the trouble he had created. But as the weeks turned into months, as he watched the baby use his telekinetic abilities, he has grown to care for him, from one ear to the other and everything green in between. Though they have been hunted and were forced to hide since then, the two of them have gone to different planets and met some interesting people along the way. And the Mandalorian has never felt so alive.

But being hunted down like a criminal is no way for a child to live—which is why his guardian faces forward again and readies his ship to leap into hyperspace. As he presses a few buttons, his brain attempts to conjure up a strategy. Greef’s true plan must be to kill him and deliver the kid to the Imp, but the Mandalorian is willing to bet that his old boss may change his mind, if correctly persuaded. If the Imperials have taken over the Guild’s headquarters like Greef had said, then they must be making business awful. Perhaps the survival of the bounty hunting business and its Code redeemed will be more important to Greef than the Mandalorian’s head.

 _It’s possible,_ he says to himself as he eases the _Crest_ into hyperspace.

To bring this about, or to protect the child if things do not work in his favor, he knows he will need some help from a friend or two. His gloved fingers are in the process of hailing Talia, but he stops himself. She can be anywhere in the galaxy right now and may not be able to help him and the baby in time. Besides, he does not need to consult with her in every decision he makes concerning Vandar. If she stayed or came back sooner, then they could have formed a retaliation plan together, and she could help him to try to stay out of trouble.

 _But she’s not here,_ a bitter voice whispers to him. _So, I’m going to go for the next best person._

He sets his nav-computer for Sorgan and hopes that Cara Dune is still there enjoying her early retirement.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

“You had a woman onboard recently,” Cara points out as she climbs up the ladder to the cockpit, and the Mandalorian feels his muscles stiffen at the remark.

Good news: he found Cara on that backwater planet. After some convincing and a slight mention of an Imperial warlord, she accepted his petition for help. They are now leaving Sorgan, and he just punched in coordinates for Arvala-7. It is time to pay Kuiil another visit.

“What makes you say that?” he asks her, proud of how flat his tone is. But inside, his mind is scrambling across his ship, trying to figure out what could have given away Talia’s brief habitation on the _Crest_.

“That black-and-white striped fur on your cot,” comes the reply. He hears Cara settle in Talia’s chair.

Before he recruited the ex-Shock trooper, he had stashed the Nexu pelt in his sleeping compartment so the baby can rest in there with it later on. But he is sure that he closed the door to the coffin-like closet. Since he left his ward down below with Cara so he could start up the engines, the baby must have opened it up at some point. Or, he manipulated Cara to do it for him.

“It’s the kid’s,” he replies truthfully.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, swiveling his chair around so he can see her.

Cara lifts a quizzical eyebrow at him, and he notices that she is suppressing a smirk. Leaning back in her seat, she crosses her muscled arms in front of him. 

“But the kid,” she points out, “doesn’t smell of lemons. And neither do you. So, that means someone else does. Or did.” He sends Cara a sharp glare, though she will never know it, and he forces his body to appear rigid as she continues with a smirk, “Was it the woman’s perfume that made you kick her off your ship?”

For a split second, he is not sure how to reply. He definitely knows not to correct her and say that the scent is from a shampoo and that Talia had left him and the kid. But should he own up to the truth and vaguely admit that another female had been on the _Crest_? Or should he give Cara an outright lie, claiming that the Nexu fur was washed with a lemon-scented soap?

Before he can make his decision, Cara chuckles at him. “I wonder what your face looks like right now, Mando! But seriously,” she adds, clearing her throat, “was it that Mandalorian friend of yours? You know, the woman you mentioned. Did you give her back her ring?”

Silently cursing Cara’s excellent memory, he gives her a quick nod then slips out of his chair and heads for the ladder. He needs to check up on the baby and make sure he is not doing anything mischievous.

“Wait a sec,” he hears her say behind him, confusion in her voice. “Was that a ‘yes’ to her being here or to you giving her ring back?”

“You’re clever, Cara,” he calls over his shoulder, climbing down to the main compartment of his ship. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

At her frustrated huff, he feels a smirk play on his lips. He had forgotten how amusing the ex-Rebel could be when he puts up his walls.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

Good news: Kuiil is willing to help him and Cara protect the baby.

Bad news: Kuiil had fixed up the bounty hunting droid that the Mandalorian had eliminated months ago. Despite the fact that the Ugnaught insists that this IG-11 is not programmed to be an assassin anymore, the Mandalorian does not trust the killing machine. Its so-called programmed “kindness” and “care-taking” abilities are not enough to erase his memory of the raised blaster IG had pointed to an innocent, defenseless baby. His loathing and mistrust of the skinny droid only enhance at its gentle talking and “thoughtful” gestures such as tea. A part of him is waiting for a switch to go off in IG’s processor that will cause it to revert back to its assassin programming. And if that happens, the Mandalorian will be ready.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

Well, Greef did plan to betray him—that does not surprise him at all. But his old boss’ change of heart? Now, _that_ nearly floors the Mandalorian. Since the baby had healed Greef with his gift—and he needs to talk to Talia about how that is even possible—the dark-skinned man admits that he cannot go through with killing him and handing over the little one to the Imps. So, that is indeed good news.

Bad news: he, Cara, and Greef are trapped in a cantina after their plan to eliminate the Imperial warlord fails. Apparently, there is another Imp out there who has been calling the shots from the very beginning: Moff Gideon.

Just thinking of that monster’s name churns the Mandalorian’s stomach. The former Moff had swaggered from his ship, his black cloak floating behind him as if he had the entire Empire supporting him. His tone was high and mighty, dripping with faux friendliness. He had attempted to act and think reasonable, but the Mandalorian’s instincts roared at the deception. He knew that past Gideon’s cool façade was a man always on the brink of violence.

When the Moff gloats about his knowledge of who he and his companions are, the Mandalorian wants to shoot that smirk off his face. His own name, Din Djarin, sounds like poison when Gideon declares it for all of Nevarro to hear. He cringes at it as if someone has stripped him of his armor and exposed his belly to a vibroblade. His name echoes in his ears, and it is foreign to him.

Din Djarin.

He never liked how it sounded. But he especially does not like the memories that soon tumble over him as a tidal wave, memories that he prefers to be stored away in his mental archives. He hears his buir murmuring his name after Gideon shoots at the power source of the cannon he is using to wipe out the Moff’s stormtroopers. Her strong voice whispers it to him as he falls to the ground from the explosion. She orders him to get up and keep on fighting, but he remains where he is, staring up at the clear blue sky. Blackness is at the edge his vision. He can feel the back of his head throbbing with a knife-like pain, and he finds himself wanting to just let go, to be reunited with her and his parents. Even when Cara hauls him back into the cantina with the rest of their group, he thinks about telling her to leave him be, to allow his damaged shell to finally rest in the peace that he has so longed for.

“Stay with me, buddy,” she grunts as she drags him. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

 _It’s too late for me,_ he wants to tell her. He knows his wounds, and this one is really bad. _Save the kid, Cara. Take the_ Crest _and find Talia._

“I’m not going to make it,” he manages to say. Lying on his back, on a hard surface that he does not recognize, he turns to the only person he trusts in this crumbling building. “Go,” he urges her.

In a Cara-like way, she tells him to shut-up and refuses to abandon him even when he insists that she leave him there. He can feel her fingers pull away from supporting his neck, and from the alarm in her brown eyes when she looks at them, he knows she sees blood, _his_ blood staining her hand.

“I’m going to need to take this thing off,” she says, reaching for his helmet.

A burst of energy zaps him, and he stops her. His hand grips hers tightly as he insists, “No! You leave me.”

With his head feeling as if it will crack open soon, he pulls her hand away and reaches for his Mythosaur pendant. His gloved fingers search for the black cord necklace underneath his tunic. For a moment he thinks he is missing something when he touches the lone skull; then, he remembers that he is no longer carrying Talia’s Clan Kex ring. He has not done so for almost two months now. How could he have forgotten that? His head injury must be worse than he thinks.

“Here,” he gulps, yanking the necklace off and handing it to Cara. “When you get to the Mandalorian Covert, you show them that. You tell them it’s from Din—” His throat tightens, but he forces himself to finish. “—Djarin. You tell them the foundling was in my protection. And they’ll help you.”

He is about to order Cara to go to the _Crest_ afterwards and turn on the tracking beacon he planted on Talia so she can find his fellow Mando, but the ex-Shock trooper quickly interrupts, claiming, “We can make it. Come on.” She tugs at him, yet he resists by making his body settle even more on whatever it is he is lying on. “Let’s go!”

“I’m not going to make it, and you know it,” he stubbornly states.

His tunic is already drenched with sweat before Gideon sends an arson trooper to cook them alive in the ruined cantina. Cara covers him with her body, and he wants to tell her to save the kid rather than him.

“You protect the child,” he gasps after the fire attack pauses. Why is it getting so hard for him to breathe in air? “I can hold them back long enough for you to escape.” When she sends him an obstinate glare, he almost begs, “Let me have a warrior’s death.” He hopes his tone is sprinkled with enough of a plea for her to listen. 

His lips form a tired smile when she declares, “I _won’t_ leave you.” The determination in her gaze, the grim expression etched on her tanned face—it all reminds him of Talia, and he regrets not calling her for help.

 _But it’s too late,_ he thinks.

“This is the way,” he murmurs to the smoke-filled room.

 _And I am ready,_ he silently adds, _to die._

Something catches Cara’s attention. He cranes his neck to his left, and a jolt of pain from his head makes his eyes watery. But he needs to look at Death in the face if they are going to burn together. He feels his gaze widen when he sees little Vandar walking towards the entrance of the cantina, straight for the arson trooper. The Mandalorian’s body starts to overheat by the orange fire that spits out from the soldier’s weapon, but the baby lifts up his tiny hands just before the flames reach any of them. In an impossible act, the fire stops moving and forms a wall in front of Vandar. Knowing he must be using his gift, the Mandalorian watches with unbelief as the flames are pushed back towards the trooper and soon feed on him and his Imperial-armored body.

Impressed, shocked, and filled with pride—the Mandalorian gives his child a small smile. Vandar sure has come a long way from playing with those candles Talia had given him to exercise with. His little womp-rat has blessed him by showing him just how powerful he is before his guardian enters the afterlife. If only his nanny was here to see it. He can imagine her dark eyes, so lovely and sincere, shine with excitement and pride.

His companions hustle around the room, and someone picks up the exhausted kid. It is too dark for him to see who. At long last, he manages to convince Cara to leave him. But why does she have to order that assassin droid to stay with him? Sure, IG-11 has been putting the baby’s safely first; however, that does not mean the Mandalorian still likes droids, particularly this ex-assassin.

When Greef and Cara disappear with the child into the city’s sewers, IG stiffly walks over to him. The last thing he wants is for a droid to be the final figure he sees in this life. But it is not as if he really has a choice. The pain in his head is almost blinding, and he yearns to be put out of his misery.

“Do it,” he grunts, staring at the former killing machine. He never thought it would end like this, him lying on the ground with fire in the room and asking for a programmed, unfeeling droid to have the honor of finishing off the Guild’s famous Mandalorian bounty hunter.

“Do what?” IG asks him in an innocent tone.

“Just get it over with,” he gulps, slightly irritated that he has to spell out his request to a one-of-a-kind artificial intelligence. He can feel his body beginning to shut down. “I’d rather you kill me than some Imp.”

“I told you,” IG replies calmly. “I am no longer a hunter. I am a nurse droid.”

Even amidst the pain and the darkness, he can see the B2-battle droids and Droidekas destroying his hometown, wreaking havoc with their blaster shots. He clenches his teeth as he bitterly says, “IGs are all hunters.”

“Not this one,” the machine states. “I was re-programmed.” It steps forward and leans closer to him. “I need to remove your helmet, if I am to save you.”

When IG lifts his skinny mechanical hand to follow through with its intentions, the Mandalorian instinctively raises his blaster and points it at the droid. He forces pain into the closet as he holds his weapon up, but it fights him, pounding against his mental door like a drum.

“Try it,” he warns, “and I’ll kill you.”

 _Kill? It’s a droid,_ a voice scoffs at him, and it almost sounds like Xi’an’s. _They don’t get killed, Mando. They get terminated—destroyed._

“It is,” he chokes out, ignoring the twisted voice, “forbidden. No living thing has seen me without my helmet since I . . .” The pain is almost too much to bear, but he forces himself to keep talking. “. . . swore to the Creed.”

IG swivels its pole-like head before replying, “I am not a living thing.”

Again, it moves to take off his helmet, and the Mandalorian does nothing to stop him. Slowly, he lowers his weapon as he feels his chin become exposed to the fire crackling on the other side of the room. His nose breathes in the smoke, the smell of burnt bodies, and the putrid odor of the sewer.

With uncovered eyes, Din glances up at his unorthodox savior, a once feared killing machine turned nurse-maid. If only that droid knew how sacred the decision is to keep his helmet on, to belong to a Tribe and share its members’ faces, to stay hidden from the rest of the galaxy so he can forget where he came from and how overwhelming his emotional pain is as it haunts him every day. To wear a helmet of honor such as a Mandalorian’s has been his lifeline, his identity. It is practically imbedded in his DNA.

Yet, as he stares at IG, he finds himself wishing that a pair of brown eyes are the ones looking back at him, eyes that convey emotion and fondness so he can bask in their glow and feel comforted by their presence.

“This is a Bacta spray,” IG informs him. “It will heal you in a matter of hours.”

He hears a hissing sound near his right ear. The spray wets the back of his head and dampens his hair. A trickle of the healing liquid runs down his neck just as the pain is about to reach its peak. Like mist, the Bacta soothes his injury, and he gasps at the relief it brings him. His pain dwindles to a bearable headache; however, he suspects that a mere Bacta spray such as IG’s will not be enough to restore him to complete health.

“You have suffered damage to your central processing unit,” IG reports, and the programming lingo is surprisingly refreshing to hear.

“You mean my brain,” he clarifies.

“That was a joke,” the droid replies. “It is meant to put you at ease.”

Din wheezes out a scoff. He cannot remember the last time he has allowed himself to laugh, even if it is a weak attempt. And to think that a droid is the one who caused it.

 _Maybe IG isn’t so bad after all,_ he muses to himself. His brain clears and conjures up an image of RUBY, Talia’s red-plated protocol droid. _Those two would’ve gotten along. Tal’s going to be surprised when she finds IG on the_ Crest _._

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

“It looks helpless,” his Tribe’s Armorer observes as she studies the baby.

“It’s injured,” he explains. “But it is _not_ helpless. Its species can move objects with its mind.”

“I know of such things,” his leader admits, turning away. He is about to ask her how when she continues, “The songs of eons past tell of battles between Mandalore the Great and an order of sorcerers called Jedi that fought with such powers.”

 _Talia’s uncle Zeb must’ve been one of these Jedis,_ he realizes. _But she never said anything about him being an enemy._ However, as he allows himself to think even more on this topic, it dawns on him that Talia has always skirted around the whole truth about her beloved uncle. _She’s got a lot of explaining to do._

“It is an enemy?” he finds himself asking.

“No. Its _kind_ were enemies,” his Armorer patiently corrects him. “But this individual is not.”

“What is it?”

“It is a foundling,” she explains, and he feels the pain of his headache increase because of her answer. “By Creed, it is in your care.”

 _But I don’t want to keep him forever,_ his brain argues.

Pointing at the green-skinned child, he says instead, “You wish me to train this thing?” He winces at how cold he sounds, and he is glad that the little one is too young to understand full sentences. The child would be hurt by his tone. And the description he just used.

“It is too weak. It would die,” the matriarch states matter-of-factually. “You have no choice: you must reunite it with its own kind.”

“Where?” he demands. He has no idea what species the baby is, let alone know where he comes from.

“This, you must determine.”

Frustration heightens his headache as he all but challenges, “You expect me to search the galaxy for the home of this creature and deliver it to a race of enemy sorcerers?”

When his Armorer glances at him, her golden helmet shining in the forge’s fire, and quotes, “This is the way,” he feels his injury combine with his exasperation and then morph into the worst headache he has ever had. The old phrase is practically a reprimand right now, a reprimand witnessed by a droid, a gifted baby, and two other adults. This is _not_ his day today.

But time escapes him and his companions. The Imperials are getting closer, and he wishes he has more moments with his Chief. He asks her to join him, his voice begging her to help him, but she refuses. Her place is here on Nevarro for the time being. Though he wants to stay, too, she insists he leave with the baby and take this opportunity to flee the planet so he can fulfill his mission.

“Have you trained in the Rising Phoenix?” she asks him, turning to her worktable nearby.

“When I was a boy, yes,” he replies. But he does not mention that he had briefly worn a jet-pack on Dxun almost a month ago. It had been foreign to him as he mentally steered himself with it strapped to his back, and he was grateful that he only used it for a short time.

“Then this will make you complete,” his Armorer tells him. When she faces him again, she is holding a jet-pack, shining silver and looking brand new. After he thanks her for the generous gift, she instructs, “When you have healed, you will begin your drills. Until you know it, it will not listen to your commands.”

“I understand,” he replies. He has a sudden urge to give her a respectful bow as if she is royalty showering him with presents.

“IG,” she commands the droid moments later, “carry this for Din Djarin until he is well enough to wear it.”

Hearing her speak his name jolts him awake. His shoulders tense, for he has treated those two words like a curse, as something that should not be voiced. The names of his Tribe’s members, he had once explained to Talia, are not important because they do not define them.

 _“Our helmets are symbols of who we are as a culture. As a united Tribe,”_ he had told her back on Cholganna.

 _“But you lose your personal identity,”_ she argued.

 _“It doesn’t matter._ I _don’t matter. What does,”_ he revealed, _“is the survival of my Tribe. When people see our helmets, they see one face, one group.”_

And now, his Tribe is all but gone. He and his Chief look as if they are the only ones left alive. The armor pieces of his brothers and sisters litter the halls of their sewer-home, their cracked helmets glaring at him. _He_ brought them harm; _he_ led them to their deaths. With his name now revealed to his companions and to all of Nevarro, he should just rip off his helmet and forever be disgraced.

 _“Mandalorians are made up of individual Clans,”_ Talia’s voice whispers to him, reminding him of her words from months ago. _“And Clans are made up of individuals. Each person is important to their Clan’s survival. Without that one person, joining with another, there would be no Clans. And no Mandalorians.”_

 _“You are a clan of two,”_ his Armorer had declared several minutes ago.

A Mandalorian and a child-sorcerer.

A man and a boy.

A father and his son.

And every son should know his father’s name.

 _I am Din Djarin,_ he chants to himself as he races down the dark sewer tunnels with his companions. _A warrior sworn to Tribe Ordo. Chief of Clan Djarin. And father of Vandar Djarin._

 _“You’ve traded one identity for another,”_ he can hear Talia whisper to him despite the fact that she must be parsecs away. He misses her, her accent, her peaceful presence. He knows she will be glad that bounty hunting will no longer be his priority anymore. His previous annoyance and bitterness towards her leaving him vanish in the heat radiating from the lava river. He wants to see her expression when he finally tells her his name, and he is curious to know what it will sound like with her Coruscant accent. He just needs to escape this hard-rock of a planet.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

The day is coming to a close. Though Moff Gideon is dead, it had come at a steep price. Din lost IG, a faithful droid he had no idea that he would miss. But worse yet, he lost Kuiil. He buries the compassionate Ugnaught on Nevarro, blaming himself for dragging him away from his life of freedom on Arvala-7. He tries to focus on how Fate had spared both Cara and Greef from Death’s clutches, but he is having a hard time erasing IG’s burning body or Kuiil’s lifeless one from his sharp memory.

He walks up the ramp of the _Crest_ , the baby’s cradle hovering beside him. After he closes the cargo hatch, he glances at Vandar. The foundling is asleep in the egg-like bed Kuiil had made for him. Despite his throbbing headache, he smirks at the peaceful sight. Vandar deserves his rest; he more than earned it today.

His eyes turn to look at his right pauldron. The Mudhorn signet gleams at him with pride and honor. Excitement had stirred within him as his Armorer forged it onto his armor. It makes his shoulder feel slightly heavier than before, and he wonders how she had been able to carry the arduous burden of responsibility for their Tribe for as long as she did. He has only been officially made in charge of Vandar and himself for a couple of hours now, and he already feels overwhelmed.

 _Welcome to parenthood,_ a voice chuckles. It reminds him of his buir’s, and he smirks to himself.

Leaving the little one in the main compartment, Din climbs up the ladder to his cockpit. The back of his head throbs, but he pushes it aside. He needs to find out where Vandar had come from, and the best person he can think of who may have answers is currently missing-in-action.

As he slides into the pilot’s chair, he notices that he received a transmission a few hours ago. Instead of listening to it, he turns on his engines. He has to leave Nevarro before any more loyal Imperials find him.

Once his ship is ready for flight, it leaps into the air. In a matter of moments, he is guiding the _Crest_ through space. The stars wink at him like broken glass scattered across a black velvet canvas. He feels his muscles relax when his computer notifies him that Nevarro is growing farther and farther away.

With a flick of his wrist, he eases the _Crest_ into hyperspace. Only after a tunnel of endless cyan and sapphire swirls before him does he listen to the recorded message waiting for him. His holoprojector flickers its grayish-blue light, and much to his surprise, Talia’s figure appears.

 _“_ Ner burc’ya* _,”_ she greets him with a nod. Even though her image is small, he can still see concern chiseled across her diamond-shaped face. _“This is me checking in. I’m sorry it’s taken so long, but I wanted to know how you and the youngling are doing so far.”_ She presses her lips together, as if that will distract him from noticing how worried her accent sounds. _“Is everything okay? You’re trying to stay out of trouble, right?”_ She sends him a knowing look.

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

On any other normal day, he would have shaken his head at her concern, but after what he has been through the last seventy-two hours, he finds himself frowning at her. It is strange that she sent him this message while he and the baby were facing off Gideon with their companions. He wonders if she bugged the _Crest_.

 _“You_ do _know that I’ll drop everything if either of you are in trouble,”_ holographic Talia reminds him, her dark eyes looking steadily ahead of her as if she can see him. _“I get that you’re angry at me for leaving,_ ner burc’ya* _, but I couldn’t help it. My errand,”_ she sighs, _“was disappointing, but I’ll tell you about it later. I promise. Daggeron returned home a few days ago, and I’m in the northern sector of the Outer Rim right now. I have some . . . things I need to take care of before I come back._

 _“Just please,”_ she petitions, _“contact me as soon as you can. Call it instinct, but I feel that something bad has happened to you and Vandar. Be safe, okay?”_

With a final nod, Talia reaches for something on her left. Her ghostly blue image flickers before her transmission ends completely.

 _Yeah, she’s got to have a listening device onboard,_ he reasons to himself. _There’s no way her instincts are_ that _good._

If _he_ could plant a tracker on her, then he will not put it past his fellow Mando to imbed a bug somewhere on his ship. Or even insert some kind of spyware in his computer. After all, she had plenty of moments to access his terminal up here, especially in the evenings when he was in the _Crest_ ’s lower level.

He plays back her message, studying it for any clues as to how she figured out that he and Vandar had run into some trouble. But her words are as cryptic and as vague as usual. So, he turns off his holoprojector and activates her tracker.

After his nav-computer connects with the tracker, it beeps, alerting him of Talia’s current location. She is in the Thanium Sector. Grid coordinates, R-6.

“Galidraan,” he murmurs to himself. “Galidraan.”

Why does that planet sound so familiar to him? He thinks, diving into his metal archives, but his head aches the longer he tries to remember. Instead of reading about this world in his terminal, he enters the coordinates in his nav-computer and puts the _Crest_ on automatic pilot mode.

Groaning, he rises to his feet. He and the baby will arrive in Galidraan the day after next. A few hours or so before dawn actually. That gives him plenty of time to wash away the grime of Nevarro, eat, sleep, and allow his exhausted body to heal.


	21. A Different Kind of Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting for this chapter since I first came up with my story and Talia last year in late November between "The Sin" and "Sanctuary." So, without further ado...

Chapter XXI: A Different Kind of Mask

_Region: Outer Rim Territories_

_Sector: Thanium Sector_

_System: Galidraan System_

_Coordinates: R-6_

By the time the _Crest_ penetrates Galidraan’s atmosphere, it is a couple of hours before dawn. Talia’s tracker pulses with life, and Din is grateful that the signal is stationary the closer he gets to it.

Two silver moons shine brightly in the midnight-blue sky, and their illuminations allow him to see the planet without having to turn on his night-vision. Galidraan has a mountainous surface with thick pine forests, each stretching as far as he can see. Snow whitens the peaks at the higher elevations and even reaches more than halfway down the mountains. The pine trees look like black pillars as mist flows through certain areas with its wispy fingers. He can feel a chill making its way through his ship up to where he is sitting in his pilot’s chair.

He wonders why Talia is here on this planet. Since his head has been throbbing non-stop, he chose not to do any research on Galidraan—nor search for the listening device he assumes she planted onboard. His sleep had not been as restful as he would have liked, and when he woke up, he felt as if the back of his head was swollen and tender. He did not even want to put on his helmet; he also had a hard time dragging himself out of his sleeping compartment. IG had said the Bacta spray would heal him in a few hours, but that had been over thirty hours ago. So, he applied his own Bacta gel on his injury, thinking that should help him recover faster. Yet he abstained from taking any kind of pain reliever. Why bother? The headache is somewhat bearable, and it should be going away on its own soon—or so he had hoped.

Naturally, the lower part of his skull is _still_ pounding, putting him in the worst of moods. He is determined to drive the headache away himself. A sliver of his previous annoyance towards Talia creeps back in, beating through him with every throb in his cranium. The question of “Why here?” returns with new energy. Why Galidraan? What is Talia up to? In her transmission, she mentioned that her errand proved to be a disappointment. Then why did she not simply re-join him and the kid? What kept her away?

The questions bounce all over his brain in a never-ending tumble as if they are trapped in his helmet. The only good thing about the situation right now is that his tracker in Talia’s footlocker is still giving off a clear signal. With his gloved hands tightly gripping the controls, he guides the _Crest_ in its direction.

As he closes in, he notices an orange dot in the forest below. When it flickers like a match, he assumes it is from a campfire. Thinking it is from a Galidraanian native, he ignores it and flies past it without another thought.

Less than a minute later, he sees the outline of the _Alabaster Star_ parked amidst a large clearing in the forest. Slowing the _Crest_ down, he searches for a place to land. Finding none, he continues to head east, passing over Talia’s ship. Shortly afterwards, he comes across a narrow clearing near a silver stream. He decreases the _Crest_ ’s speed even more as he steers closer to the open area. He can hear some of the trees’ branches brush up against his ship, but as far as he knows, they do not cause any serious damages.

The _Crest_ heaves a sigh once its landing gear digs into the ground. While he shuts down the engines, he has his computer scan the area. It tells him that the _Alabaster Star_ is about half a mile from his current position. The terrain appears to be fairly leveled, so going on foot should not be too difficult. He will have to travel to the southwest, and he calculates that the short hike should take no longer than ten minutes.

 _Fresh air’ll do me some good,_ he thinks to himself grumpily.

Turning off his computer, he heads for the ladder leading to the main compartment of his ship. While climbing down, he is assaulted with more throbbing at the back of his head. His brain feels as if it is inflating, and blood rushes to his ears. He tightens his grip on the metal foot-bars and wills himself to conquer the pain. He is convinced that a simple task like this should _not_ be so strenuous, but by the time he reaches the bottom, he feels slightly dizzy.

Still gripping the foot-bars to steady himself, he cannot help but blame his current situation on Talia. He considers the possibility that, if she had been with him and the kid to aid them on Nevarro, he might not have been injured this severely. _And_ he would not be here on this mountainous planet looking for her when he should be resting.

He sucks in a sharp breath and releases his hold on the ladder. Deep down, he knows his train of thought does not make any sense; if anything, it adds to his headache. Maybe his injury is not the problem. Maybe his head hurts because he still trying to figure out his mysterious friend. Either way, he needs to ignore the pounding in his lower skull and focus on getting to the _Alabaster Star_.

With his resolve hardening, he turns around. The baby’s egg-cradle that Kuiil had made for them is hovering in front of his arsenal’s doors. The little one had been asleep but is now looking up at him with tired brown eyes. Since Nevarro, the baby has been taking small naps throughout the trip, recovering his strength.

“Hey there, you little womp-rat,” Din murmurs to him. “Get enough sleep?”

The baby blinks at him in response then shudders. The bitter weather outside must already be affecting him, so Din opens up his sleeping compartment and pulls out the baby’s Nexu pelt. The soft fur is folded atop his jet-pack, but he plans to leave the latter here on the _Crest_. He closes the compartment before removing the baby’s brown blanket. At this, he receives a frown and a pout.

“Be patient,” he says to Vandar. He wraps the white pelt with ebony stripes around the kid, making sure it stays secure. Then, he covers the fur with Vandar’s brown blanket as a precaution—he does not want him to freeze during their hike.

 _“You are its father,”_ his Armorer’s words remind him, and the memory makes him shake his head. He never thought he would have a baby to care for, especially one that not only looked like Vandar but also had his gift.

“All right,” the Mandalorian tells his adoptive son. “We’re heading out.”

After he shuts the cradle’s covering, he presses a button on his right gauntlet, initiating the setting that will have the egg-looking contraption follow his every move. He then walks over to the side-hatch and opens it. With determined strides, he descends the ramp. When he reaches the bottom, he orders his ship to retract the walkway and close the side-door before locking the _Crest_ down.

He glances around him, assessing his surroundings. The sky is still midnight-blue, and he can see a few stars winking at him. He hears the creek trickle behind the ship while in front of him is the forest. Mist floats through the snow-covered trees, enhancing the scent of pine and winter. The cold temperature tries to bite through his clothes and chill him to his bones, and the icy air stings his nostrils with every breath he takes.

After a few seconds, he begins walking southwest at a brisk pace so his movements can stimulate some heat throughout his body. His boots squish on the light layer of snow settled atop the ground. Above, the planet’s two moons paint everything in shades of silver, gray, and blue. Their combined illumination is still so bright that their beams bounce off the fog and the snow on the ground and tree branches. He can even make his way through the forest without needing to turn on his night vision.

As he snakes around tall pines and evergreen shrubs, he notices how still the environment is. Every couple of minutes he hears an owl hoot, its sleepy song echoing across the woodland. Of course, there is the occasional nocturnal noises like a lone cricket’s chirping or a crow’s loud cawing. Being so high in elevation, he figures that the cold and the snow must drive away the nighttime insects and force rodents to stay in their homes.

Much to his relief, he feels his headache begin to subside—probably due to the wintry climate. However, his feet and hands have not grown accustomed to Galidraan’s misty mountains because they are numb despite being covered in boots and gloves. But he continues to hike southwest at a quick pace, and soon all of his body is warmed up.

After seven minutes of trekking through the forest, he sees a bluish-gray light ahead of him. Knowing that it must be the _Alabaster Star_ , he walks even faster; the baby’s cradle is now behind him, trying to catch up. When he reaches the clearing that Talia’s ship is parked in, the door on the starboard-side opens. And there, standing underneath the threshold is R6-D12.

As the _Star_ ’s ramp lowers, he can hear the astromech whistling and beeping loudly. He reads inside his helmet: _“Master Traxell! What are YOU doing here?”_

Marching up the ramp, with the baby’s cradle following him, Din ignores the bucket of bolts and demands, “Where’s Talia?”

R6 rolls backwards so he can enter, and a wave of warmth greets him. He feels goosebumps run across his arms and down his legs at the welcoming sensation.

 _“She isn’t here,”_ R6 informs him in its usual spurts and whirs. _“She’s been away from the ship for almost two days now.”_

The Mandalorian eyes the orange-and-white-plated droid as it settles on its two “feet”. Its round, cone-shaped head swivels at him when he asks, “So, where is she?”

_“She’s camped about a mile west of here.”_

The information clicks in his brain, and he realizes that the light he had flown over when he arrived must have been Talia’s campfire. But why is she roughing it in the wintry wilderness when she has a comfortable ship almost four times the size of the _Crest_? He feels his headache returning, and R6’s sputtering and whistling nonsense is _not_ helping at all. A part of him wants to snap at the droid to shut up, but he needs R6 to cooperate

“What’s Talia doing way over there?” he questions, glancing around the _Star_.

As the tin-can answers him, he notes that the ship’s cockpit is down a very short hall on his left and that another door is in front of him on the port-side. A lounge area with a booth-like couch and an oval holo-table is directly on his right while a kitchen with an island counter and a bar with stools is diagonally across from him, also on his right. But from where he is standing, he cannot see any further into the _Star_ than this.

Quickly, he looks to the left side of his visor and reads R6’s response: _“Master Dewan is doing research. On a deceased friend of Master Zebedee’s.”_

He blinks at the droid and tilts his head at it. Since when did his fellow Mando stop being ‘Lady Talia’ to the metal nuisance and start becoming ‘Master Dewan’? But the question is soon conquered by his curiosity on this research she is currently engaged in. Does it concern those Jedi sorcerers that his Tribe’s leader had mentioned to him? Or maybe Talia is trying to find out more about the baby herself, and somehow Galidraan is a place to start looking.

“What kind of research?” he inquires, crossing his arms in front of him.

R6 releases three beeps and two low-pitched whistles: _“I’m not allowed to say. But she wanted to be alone.”_

 _And she accused_ me _of wandering around like a lost soul,_ Din inwardly scoffs.

“Without any kind of contact?” he asks instead.

 _“I’ve been ordered to hail her when you FINALLY decided to reach out,”_ the astrodroid throws at him, and he feels his headache spike up a notch at the snarky tone of its sputtering. _“She’s been waiting for you, Master Traxell. And since you’re here, I’ll go—”_

R6 is in the process of turning around so it can roll towards the cockpit, but the Mandalorian steps in front of the astromech, blocking its way. “No,” he firmly states. “I don’t want Talia to know I’m here right now. _I’ll_ go to _her_ , okay? I need to talk to her without any interruptions.”

The droid snorts loudly and titters on its three feet. _“But I should—”_

“Just stay here,” Din interrupts it. “Shut up and watch the kid. Contact me or Talia if he wakes up.”

He then presses a button on his gauntlet, commanding the cradle to remain where it is. Meanwhile, R6 protests, but he ignores it as he begins to march down the _Star_ ’s ramp.

Behind him, he can hear the bucket of bolts whistling angrily at him. He reads: _“And here I thought you were being nice for once. Meanie Mando. I’m telling Master Dewan when she gets back!”_

“The little tattle-tale,” Din mutters under his breath. R6’s last comment just put another strike against it.

Leaving the _Alabaster Star_ and his kid, he heads west. He remembers the general area where he had seen Talia’s campfire. If R6 is right and she is about a mile away from her ship, then he should be there in no more than twenty minutes.

 _I’ll make it in fifteen,_ he decides, picking up his pace.

The sky above has transitioned into a plum color. Clouds are floating across the early morning, but there is still a layer of fog swirling through the forest. His boots crunch atop day-old snow and twigs. Like before, the cold temperature eases his headache, allowing him to push it in the background. The scent of pine seems thicker here for some reason—not that he minds. He has always found this particular fragrance soothing.

While he strides briskly through the wee hours, he is beginning to wonder if leaving Vandar with a droid was wise. Just because IG-11 took care of the baby does not mean that R6 can do the same. After all, IG was programmed to be a nurse-maid while the astromech is not. But Vandar is asleep right now, he reminds himself, and should not wake up for another few hours. That is more than enough time to get back to the _Star_ with Talia. And the baby would probably like being somewhere nice and warm rather than traipsing around in the snowy forest with him. Besides, he needs to have a long, undisturbed talk with Vandar’s nanny, and he cannot have that if the baby or the droid are around.

An owl’s hooting resonates across the woodland as he continues to head west. He is curious as to what kind of research Talia is up to. And why would it require her to leave her brand new ship? The term _research_ is so general that it could be anything. It may not even be related to Vandar or her uncle. But something tells him that it is because why else would she stay away after her errand was over? Is she trying to become further acquainted with Zeb’s gift? Maybe she needs to know more about his sorcery so she can help the baby. But then, why not tell him? Or her precious droid? He clenches his jaw, frustrated that she still clings to her secrets like a cloak.

He thinks about what his Armorer said about the people who had the kid’s gift, that they were enemies of the Mandalorians. He can see why. After all, a person with the ability to move things with his mind can be a dangerous foe. And knowing his fellow Mandos, they would view such a person as a threat.

But as far as he knows, Talia and her uncle are members of his Creed. So, did they keep Zeb’s gift a secret? Jumping over a fallen tree he shakes his head. That does not sound very likely since both uncle and niece fought in the Clone War together. Not many Mandos joined the crusade for the Galactic Republic due to their bad history. If anything, most of them stayed neutral—or caused trouble like Death Watch did.

However, Zeb was different: he was a firm believer in the Republic. And so was Talia. She still is in fact. That must be an Onderonian influence. He remembers that she is considered an honorary Mando, and he never did learn if she swore herself to the Creed. Maybe she was unable to because she and Zeb fought for the Republic. And maybe because Zeb was considered his culture’s enemy since he had that gift like the kid.

His headache gets worse with all this thinking, questions, and rabbit trails. None of it is making any sense. There are too many holes, too many pieces and not enough context. He releases a huff, and his boots pound into the snow-covered ground with extra force. He needs straight answers, _now_. And Talia better give them to him, or—oh Mandalore, so help him!—he will use her precious astromech droid as target practice. Right in front of her, too.

An orange flicker catches his attention. It is very faint, but he is sure he is getting closer to Talia’s campfire. He turns on his infrared vision, curious if she had wandered over here recently. Dropping his eyes, he sees red footprints standing out against the white snow, leading him towards her camp. He follows her heat signature for a few more minutes before spotting a blazing fire. It is straight ahead of him, about ten yards away.

“A holo-call would’ve been enough,” an elegant accent floats to him.

Like lightning, Din spins around, his gray cloak flapping in the cold air. His pulse had jolted at the surprise, and he forces it to calm down. He finds Talia, shrouded in the forest’s shadows, standing directly behind him. As he turns off his infrared vision, he wonders how long she has been watching him. Was she expecting him or someone else? Did that good-for-nothing droid tattle on him?

“I had to talk to you in person,” he states, proud that his voice does not reveal how startled he had been.

Her black silhouette glances around them. “Where’s the youngling?” she asks quietly.

“Sleeping on your ship. I’m having R6 watch him.”

She hums at this. “I’m surprised you’re letting a droid take care of him.”

“R6’s proved to be trustworthy. Even if he’s an annoying tin-can,” he mutters under his breath.

He hears her chuckle and sees a puff of white air drift from where she is standing. “So, what changed your mind? I know you don’t like droids—and for good reason, too.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

_Yeah, well, I don’t._

“What are you doing all the way out here?” he asks instead, his tone gruff.

“Research,” she replies before gripping her hands behind her back and widening her stance.

“So R6 tells me.”

“He told you a lot. That must’ve been difficult for him to communicate to you.”

He does not miss the implied jab. She is more than aware of the fact that he cannot understand binary. However, ever since his mission to the Antar Mansion back on Onderon, the droid dialect gets translated for him inside his helmet. But he would rather not tell her that right now, so he shrugs his shoulders and replies, “We found a way.”

Talia gestures for him to follow her back to her campsite. As they near her welcoming fire, he gets a better view of her. She is wearing a gray outer tunic that appears to wrap around her, as if it is a shawl designed to be some kind of robe. When he studies it better, he sees that it is a strange-looking cardigan that crosses her chest and is held in place with a belt made of the same gray, thick fabric. This outer tunic drapes down to her thighs, has short sleeves, and has a hood, yet Talia is not using that last feature to cover her head so she can stay warm. Her dark hair flows behind her, and he spies a single braid, about two fingers wide, dangling over her shoulder.

Underneath her interesting cardigan, he notes that she has donned a thick, black shirt with long-sleeves—and these sleeves reach all the way to her hands in a glove-like fashion, probably keeping her fingers warm. Below she has on a pair of trousers and knee-high leather boots, both black and made for climates like Galidraan. Snaked around her petite waist is her ebony belt, its holster carrying her DE-10 blaster pistol. The silver weapon looks newly polished, for it glints in the moons’ beams.

 _Isn’t she cold?_ he wonders. Though her clothes’ materials appear to be thick for winter, she is not wearing as many layers as he would think to be adequate enough to drive away the icy chill in the air.

When they reach her fire and stand in front of it, his eyes catch a sparkle hanging against her gray outer tunic. He realizes that it is Vandar’s favorite necklace, the gold one with its emerald pendant.

With a hunter’s gaze, he glances over her home of two days. There is an old leather satchel lying on the ground right next to a traveling backpack and a rolled-up sleeping bag. Two thin logs—perfect for sitting—flank the bonfire, which is kept in line by a perimeter of stones. A pile of firewood is off to the side, and he figures it is enough for one more night here out in the wilderness.

“This is new,” he hears Talia remark.

When he cranes his neck to look at her, he finds her nodding at his signet welded onto his right pauldron. She leans closer to him so she can examine it better, and a small yet proud smile forms on her lips.

“A Mudhorn?” she queries, her dark eyes studying his visor. After he nods in confirmation, she whispers, “You’ve earned it. Just like you said you would.”

“I have,” he answers. Despite the freezing temperature and his headache, he feels his chest expand.

“You’ve been busy, _ner burc’ya_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

The instant she utters the sentence he is bombarded with everything that has happened the past week, which reminds him of her absence. The lower part of his skull throbs harder at the fact, and he rubs the back of his neck, wishing his gloved fingers can soothe his aching head. He notices Talia cocking a dark eyebrow at him. Immediately, he drops his hand. As far as she is aware, doing that is not something he is known for, and he has no intention of giving away his current discomfort at this time.

“It’s part of my long story,” he admits. He steps closer to her fire and relishes its warmth.

Talia walks around the controlled flames and sits on the fallen log to his right. Waving a hand, she silently invites him to do the same.

Surveying the area again, he notices that the snow outside of the campfire has not only been disturbed but also has been melted recently. As discreetly as he can be, he turns on his infrared vision. Scattered across the ground are glowing red footprints pulsing with heat. While settling on the log opposite of Talia, he sees that the imprints have overlapped each other as if a group of people have trampled on the woodland floor moments ago. Upon closer study he realizes that these footprints are the same size, meaning they all belong to Talia. What was she doing before he arrived? And at this hour, too?

“You’ve missed out on a lot, Kex,” he mumbles while subtly switching off his infrared vision. When he focuses on her again, she is looking at him curiously. It is probably because he has made it a habit of calling her by her Mando surname when he is annoyed at her or in a prickly mood. And right now, he is both.

“If you called, I wouldn’t have, _Ordo_ ,” she retaliates. Her tone hides a reprimand, but he is still able to detect it. “What happened?”

“How’d you know something happened?” he throws back at her. “Your message didn’t say much.”

He reminds himself that he never did search the _Crest_ for the listening device that he suspected she had planted on him. He had been too tired, and his pounding head convinced him not to. Besides, since it was just him and the kid, neither of them made a lot of noise. If she really was eavesdropping, then all she would have heard were the engines running, the shuffling of his boots, and the kid’s loud snoring. He promises himself to get rid of the device later, when he feels better.

“I said it was instinct,” she repeats that annoying detail from her message.

“No one’s instinct is _that_ good. Tell me how you knew,” he all but demands.

“So, something _did_ happen,” she points out, sending him a knowing look.

Not wanting to play this game—it is too early for that, and he is cold despite the fire—he ignores her and accuses, “You bugged my ship, didn’t you?”

The blink he gets in response is not what he was expecting. And is that hurt he sees flash across her face?

“Is that what you think?” she asks, her voice clipped.

 _Yep, she’s hurt,_ he deduces. _And she’s not alone._

“That’s the only plausible thing,” he replies.

Talia stretches her hands closer to the fire, warming them for several seconds. Her gaze is focused on the flames, and he can see its orange fingers reflecting in her eyes.

“How about this,” she offers, looking at him again. “I’ll make a deal with you, Mando. You tell me what happened, _in detail_ , and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

The pact is almost too good to be true. Instinctively, he surveys her with suspicion. Everything from her steady gaze to the straight line across her lips to the approachable expression on her face tells him that she is being sincere. Why is he doubting her? She is honorable and has kept her word when they make agreements with each other. This one should be no different.

“Deal.”

After receiving a nod from her, he delves into what happened, starting with Greef’s transmission to him. Like he agreed, he goes into detail, mentioning his recruitment of both Cara and Kuiil. When he reveals that Kuiil brought along the re-programmed IG unit, Talia subtly nods her head, probably understanding where his affiliation with the machine is going. He considers the idea of skipping over the incident that the baby had with Cara, but his curiosity to know more about the little one’s gift overrules him. So, he tells her.

“He choked her?” Talia asks with wide eyes.

“He thought we were fighting,” he defends. “I convinced him to stop before he did any real damage.”

“And is Cara all right?”

“She’s fine. She was irritated about it, but she got over it.” He shrugs. “I think she gave the kid some slack since he’s, well, you know. A kid.”

“And he hasn’t done anything like that while I was gone?” she double-checks.

“No, just that one time. But how’d he learn to do that, Talia? That was uncalled for.”

“I’m sure he didn’t know what he was doing,” she assures him, but her eyes are fixed on the fire. “He thought you were in trouble and wanted to protect you. His instinct kicked in.”

“Yeah, I get that. But that was a little extreme.”

“He doesn’t know when to use his gift.” When she glances at him, he notes that her shoulders are slumped. “He’s just a baby.”

They sit in silence, listening to the crackling fire stationed between them. He wants to ask her about her uncle, if he had done something like that, but he knows he needs to fulfill his end of their bargain. So, he continues on with his story.

The next thing he explains is Greef’s proposal. From the shake of her head, he knows she saw the plan as a trap, yet she holds her peace and continues to listen. He studies her carefully as he shares about the run-in they all had with Nevarro’s winged creatures and the baby’s hand in healing his ex-boss. Talia sits up straighter at this.

“How was the youngling afterwards?” she interrupts.

“Exhausted, like always.” He pauses. “I didn’t know his gift could allow him to do that either.”

She takes in a deep breath. “There are a lot of things he can do. He just needs to be disciplined.”

 _Maybe controlled,_ he thinks to himself before resuming his tale.

Over the next few minutes, he recounts Greef’s change of heart and their new plan to eliminate the Imperial warlord. When he gets to the part about the fight in the cantina, Talia frowns. He mentions IG’s rescue with the baby and the explosion that occurred. While doing so, he cannot help but rub the back of his neck again because the lower section of his skull throbs at the memory.

“You’re hurt,” Talia realizes aloud.

“IG sprayed some Bacta on me,” he gruffly says. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” she argues, standing up. She goes over to her backpack and pulls out a med-kit.

“Were you expecting to need that here?” he queries.

“I’ve learned a long time ago to have one nearby.” She walks over to where he is sitting, and he is about to refuse her help when she kneels next to him. “All right then. Take it off,” she orders, nodding to his helmet.

Though his head aches and pleads for medicine, he feels his resolve harden. Crossing his arms protectively in front of him, he declares, “No. You know I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t,” she shoots back at him, her accent sounding as stubborn as he feels. “There’s a difference. Off, now.”

“No.”

“You did for IG.”

“It’s because he was _a droid_.”

“And I’m a member of your Creed,” she points out. “So, what’s the harm between Mandos and friends?”

“IG wasn’t a living person,” he argues, shifting himself away from her. “That’s the only reason why I let him take it off. I’m tired of explaining this to you.”

“And _I’m_ tired of telling you that you and your Tribe are too fanatical.” She retrieves her medisensor from her kit then defiantly moves closer to him. Through tight lips, she says, “It’s okay to take it off.”

“It’s dishonorable.”

“You’re so stubborn,” she huffs, not bothering to hide her frustration.

“Speak for yourself, Talia,” he snaps.

Her hand jiggles the small medical device right in front of him as she reasons, “My scanner can’t see past your helmet. So, that means it has to come off.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Talia releases a short laugh, and he clenches his jaw. “It’s cute that you actually expect me to believe you,” she replies, clearing her throat. He watches her carefully watch him before she asks, “Do you think you can hide forever?”

Hating that she had somehow figured out a piece of him despite the fact that his armor protects him both inside and out, he partially lies, “I don’t hide. It’s a tradition.”

“And that’s what I’m talking about: using tradition as a mask to hide behind.”

Back on Nevarro he had realized that about himself in full-force. However, hearing it from Talia, the one person who keeps on insisting that taking off his helmet is not a disgrace, completely rubs him the wrong way. Who is she to criticize him? Every time _he_ thinks he has figured her out, she does or says something that sheds a different light on her. How dare she accuse him of hiding. From the moment he met her, he has seen her don a closet-full of faces for various roles, especially on Onderon. If anyone has the right to feel frustrated at anonymity, it is him because he cannot seem to understand her no matter how hard he tries.

Before he can say anything, Talia releases a defeated sigh. “Fine then. A compromise?” she offers.

He is on the verge of refusing and simply walking back to her ship when his headache pulses as if it has a life of its own. The pain level has increased from a four to a seven, making him slightly interested in what she has in mind.

Maintaining a stubborn tone, he answers, “I’m listening.”

“Turn around and take it off,” she proposes. “That way, all I’ll see is the back of your head. Okay?”

The idea is reasonable— _that_ , he will admit. This way will allow him to still honor his Tribe’s beliefs while giving Talia a chance to examine his injury. _Just as long as her curiosity doesn’t get the better of her,_ he inwardly grumbles.

He then remembers a moment on Cholganna when she had made him and the baby a meal. They were on her ship, _Starlight_ , and it was raining buckets outside. She promised to turn both herself and the baby around while they ate so he can take off his helmet and enjoy his own meal. Like now, that deal was a compromise, and she honored her side of it. It had felt unnatural to put so much trust in a stranger despite the bond that had formed between them. But that had been months ago, and they have been through enough together for him to trust her with this one more time.

“Fine,” he says.

Without another word, he shifts in his seat atop the fallen log and turns his tired body around. Now facing the dark forest, he removes his helmet. His skull chooses that moment to throb harder, and his hold on his head-gear grows tighter. He can feel the fire warming his chilled back, but he tenses the instant he realizes exactly what he is doing. What is he thinking, allowing himself to be vulnerable right in front of Talia? He blames his decision on the pain and lack of proper sleep despite the fact that reason is telling him that he needs better medical attention than he had been receiving lately.

Behind him, he can hear Talia hum. It is a different kind of hum than he is used it. It reminds him of what a smile would sound like if it was a noise. Has she found something about him to laugh at?

Curious yet slightly defensive, he asks in edgy voice, “What is it?”

“It’s just . . .” Her words hang in the air, and he hears her make that new hum again. “You have dark hair,” she quietly finishes.

He frowns. “So?”

“It . . . it suits you.” She clears her throat, and he is still confused as to why she thought it relevant to mention this about him. A beep from her medisensor chimes, stopping him from pursuing this subject further, and she shares, “Okay, it says you’re recovering from a severe concussion. And by the looks of it, you would’ve died if you didn’t get medical attention.”

“IG said the Bacta spray would heal me,” he answers. He did not realize it before, but his voice sounds different without his helmet.

“The spray wouldn’t have worked as well on a concussion this severe,” she gently explains. “It could only do so much. Are you in pain?”

He checks himself so he cannot give an immediate ‘yes.’ In another partial lie, he says, “Just a bad headache. I rubbed on more Bacta a couple of hours ago.”

“I think this calls for a much stronger dose,” she remarks. “Is that all right?”

“Go ahead.”

Behind him, he hears Talia rifle through her med-kit. With nothing else to do, he simply waits. He sucks in a death breath, and the cold air tears down his throat and tightens his lungs. When he exhales, a puff of white escapes his lips before dissolving into the dark morning still covered in a layer of fog. He can smell the pine, its fresh scent both stronger and clearer to him. His gaze roams across the shadows made from the campfire’s light. It crackles behind him, louder than before, and he closes his eyes, stretching his hearing. An owl hoots in the distance. When he opens them again, he glances up at the sky. Magenta clouds have almost blocked out the plum-colored atmosphere. Dawn is less than an hour away.

He almost jumps out of his skin when he feels Talia’s fingers brush away his hair at the back of his head. She apologizes to him. Just like when she helped him with his wound from Xi’an’s vibroblade, she must have thought she hurt him. He had been so caught up with his surroundings and the feeling of being without his helmet that he had not been expecting her touch like he should have.

As it was before, her touch is gentle and relaxing. The wet Bacta on the tips of her fingers is cool, but as she carefully rubs it over his scab-covered wound, it warms up. His injury is tender, making him wince from the sharp pain, and again, Talia apologizes.

After relaxing a few seconds later, he focuses on her gentle fingers. They are relieving him of his pain, and he even finds himself leaning, ever so slightly, into her touch. He closes his eyes and surrenders to the soothing sensation and the comfort that she is giving him. For a moment, he begins to feel guilty for being so grumpy and snappy towards his healer.

“I was worried, you know,” he hears her comment, her accent laced with shyness and peppered with the smallest hint of distress. “And not just for the youngling.”

The confession makes him open his eyes. He is not sure how to respond to the kind words. What should he say? ‘I’m fine’? Or, ‘You didn’t have to worry’? His brain searches for an appropriate reply, but he gives up after a while and remains silent.

“All right,” Talia announces behind him. Her fingers retreat from her ministrations to his concussion. “I think this’ll be enough. How do you feel, _ner burc’ya_ *?”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha)_

“Better,” he realizes aloud. His head has indeed stopped throbbing. “Pain’s gone.”

“Good. You can put your helmet back on.”

As he does so, he hears her pack away her medical supplies. She then asks him to continue with his story, and he shares with her the Imperial warlord who was behind the attack on Nevarro and the bounty on the baby’s head. But he figures he should have mentioned that important fact earlier.

Turning himself around on the log, he reveals, “It was a man called Gideon. He was a Moff in the Empire.”

Talia, who had been walking back to her spot with her med-kit in hand, freezes at the name. He notes that her shoulders look stiff, and when she faces him, her expression is stony.

“That’s impossible,” she states. “He was executed for his war crimes. He was one of the first Moffs that the Rebellion went after.”

“Well, he got out of it somehow.”

She shakes her head, still not believing him. “You have to be mistaken. I was assured that he was dead.”

The fierceness in her dark eyes, the certainty in her voice puzzles him. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and asks, “Why would _you_ be guaranteed of his death? Have you run into him before?”

“I was in disguise at the time,” she replies. “For security purposes. But I’m the one who led a team to take him out as Moff of the Mandalore Sector. I _asked_ to remove him.” Her jaw is clenched as she murmurs, “He helped bring about the Great Purge. He approved of countless monstrosities to our people.”

“I know,” he says, his throat tight. “I helped as many of my Tribe members to escape as I could. But I didn’t know that _you_ caught him.”

“Officially and physically, my team did,” she corrects with a sigh. “I was a distraction for them with a small part of my team. We stirred up trouble on Concordia.” Talia sits down on the fallen log across from him and stashes away her med-kit inside her backpack.

“What kind of trouble?” he asks.

A heartbeat passes before she answers. “We blew up two Beskar mines, collapsed the tunnels, set the slaves free. Gideon sent half a battalion after us. But that wasn’t enough. We mowed them down easily.” She fingers her emerald pendant, and her gaze is clouded as she reminisces aloud. “Gideon sent his personal guard next. They were the best-trained stormtroopers in the Sector. He didn’t even try to handle us himself. It was beneath him, and in his arrogance, he made himself vulnerable—which is just like I predicted.”

Her accent is laced with bitterness as she continues, “The bigger part of my team infiltrated Keldabe. They captured then arrested Gideon, and that allowed us to call for Rebel reinforcements. We were able to set the capital free.”

“Suicide mission?” he queries. “Ryk’ken said those were the only ones that you took.”

She nods. “It was practically suicide. Dacob was with me on that op. But I lost more than half my team taking Gideon down. The lengths he took to escape were disgusting. One of my oldest teammates was unrecognizable from the arson attack he initiated.” She shudders at the memory and drops her pendant; it dangles from her gold necklace. “When I arrived at Keldabe, I wanted Gideon to be executed right there and then. I even volunteered to do it. But I had orders to bring him in alive. For his trial.”

The regret in her voice is heavier than the clouds covering up the purple sky. Under his breath, he remarks, “Too bad you didn’t kill him. But why’s he interested in the kid? Is it because of his gift?”

Talia shrugs before crossing her arms. “That’s the only explanation. But what happened to Gideon? Did he get away?”

In detail, he shares how he took down the former Moff’s TIE fighter using his new jet-pack and creativity. Talia had given him a half-smile when she heard he now has an additional piece to his armor, but while he explains his belief that Gideon is dead, she frowns at him.

“I don’t think anyone could have survived that,” he reasons, but she shakes her head, still not convinced.

“Did you see the fighter explode?”

“Well . . .” His brain scrambles through his memory.

“Unless you saw his body burning in the remains of his ship,” she interrupts his thinking, “I wouldn’t be so sure. If he managed to escape or even fake his own execution, then he can make it out of a crash.” She runs a hand through her wavy hair. “But are you _sure_ it was Gideon?”

“Positive.”

He then explains how the Imp knew facts about Greef and Cara, information that could have only been accessed by someone in a high position as an Imperial Moff. But when Talia continues to doubt him, he braces himself before he reveals that Gideon had called him by his name—his _real_ name.

“He could only have known that if he had access to Mandalorian files. Gideon was an ISB officer,” he reminds her. “And as Moff of the Mandalore Sector, he is one of the few people in power who had the authority to look through the sealed registers.” Crossing his arms, he argues, “It was Gideon, Talia. I’m sure of it. And he’s dead.”

For a while, his companion is quiet. He kicks a twig into the fire, waiting for her to accept both of his reports. When she lifts up her eyes to him, she asks, “So, he knows your name?”

 _Is that all that matters to her?_ he wonders to himself.

“He _knew_ ,” he grits out, not sure whether to be annoyed that she still believes Gideon is alive or that she is interested in his name.

“And so do Cara and Greef?” she double-checks. After he gives her a curt nod, she prods with a suppressed smile, “Care to share with one more person?”

Automatically, his eyes roll at the question. She _would_ use this opportunity to find out his name. Ever the politician.

Too annoyed to answer—and besides, they have more important things to talk about—he ignores her request for now and continues with his story. He explains how he and his companions had escaped the Imps and went their separate ways. With slumped shoulders, he reveals IG’s sacrifice and Kuiil’s death. Talia, he notices, sends him a sympathetic half-smile but does not interrupt, for which he is grateful for. He has more sad news to convey, and he wants to get it over with as soon as possible.

The inside of his chest squeezes when he recounts what happened to his Tribe. He studies the fire as he shares with her the results of the massacre from the Imperials: the pile of damaged helmets, the stench of death in the sewers, the discarded pieces of Beskar armor. He looks up by this point and finds Talia’s sympathetic expression melt into one of utter devastation. When he finishes, she drops her head and buries her face in her hands. Though she does not belong to his Tribe, he knows that she still considers them as her people. He can hear her breathing heavily, trying to calm herself down. Their cold air is thick with grief, and her reaction makes the inside of his chest squeeze harder.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. When she lifts up her head, her eyes are brimmed with tears. “All gone?”

He has never been so happy to shake his head. “My Chief thinks some were able to escape off-world,” he replies. “She sounded hopeful.”

The optimism he offered her is not much, but it is enough for her to blink away her unshed tears. Talia quietly clears her throat and murmurs to the warm fire, _“Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la_ * _.”_

 _(_ * _pronounced: Noo keer-AH-deesh, shi TAHB-ee-CHARJ-lah; translation: “Not gone, merely marching far away”; significance: a tribute to a dead comrade or comrades)_

All he can do is nod in agreement. Her Mando’a accent had softened the sharpness of the language, and he finds comfort in the old phrase. After he gives them an appropriate amount of time so they can move forward in their conversation, he tells her what his Armorer had charged him with: finding the baby’s people.

“She’s heard about his gift,” he shares. “But she doesn’t know that much. That’s why I came looking for you,” he finally reveals, pointing to her. “I need to know more about his species. And his gift, too.”

With a neutral face that covers up any signs of her previous grief, she states more than asks in a clear tone, “And you think I know more.”

Because he is _certain_ that she knows more, he feels himself growing annoyed at her again. She may want to dance around this subject, but now he is putting his foot down. He has neither the time nor the patience to play word games and double-meanings.

Irritation bleeds through his gravelly voice as he exclaims, “Come on, Talia! You’ve been holding back on this since Cholganna. My Leader said we Mandalorians fought people like the kid. She called them sorcerers.”

His companion jerks her head at the term, and he just realizes how crazy he sounds. “Sorcerers? Really, Ordo?” she asks, but it almost sounds as if she wanted to say, ‘Is that the best name you can come up with?’

The tone makes him defensive of his Armorer, so he snaps, “Yes. They’ve been our enemies for ages. She said they belonged to a cult. An order called—”

“Jedi.”

The word is whispered, yet there is a firmness in her voice that hits him like a brick wall. “You know? Of course you do,” he coldly replies before she can answer him. “Your uncle was one of them, wasn’t he?”

A wave of fog rolls in from the North. Its wispy fingers wrap around the thick trunks of the pine trees. The fire had started dying about ten minutes ago, but it is still crackling with life. As Talia drops her gaze to the ground, he notices that lavender clouds have completely covered the sky, and tiny snowflakes are falling down like salt. Most evaporate by the time they reach them and the warm fire, yet he can spot a few on top of Talia’s head.

His companion releases a heavy sigh as if she is carrying a hefty burden. “Yes,” she finally replies. “Zeb was.”

 _And she kept that tiny, little detail from you,_ a breathy voice whispers to him in twisted glee. It sounds a lot like Xi’an’s. Against his better judgment, he listens to that voice, and his annoyance begins to simmer into anger.

“Then he was a traitor,” he bites. “He was a Mando joining an enemy.”

Talia snaps her attention to him, her eyes flashing in defense. With a hard expression that could have been chiseled from marble, she says in a cold tone, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Not in the least afraid of her, he goads, “Oh yeah? So, why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Zeb wasn’t a Mandalorian.”

The news, though fascinating, is not what he imagined would be her response. He had been hoping for something more substantial because the revelation simply implies that Zeb must have been an Onderonian like Talia’s mother. However, that fact alone does _not_ excuse his companion’s devotion to an uncle who was a member of a group that had been an enemy to his Creed.

“Then _you’re_ a traitor to the Creed, Kex,” he sharply accuses. “For fighting with him in the Clone War.”

Like lightning, Talia is on her feet. Her dark hair collects more snowflakes, but the hot anger that flashes in her eyes can easily melt them. “If I were you,” she replies, her words deadly quiet, “I’d stop talking about things you don’t understand.”

The warning riles him up further, and he finds himself also standing. The dying fire is between them like some kind of referee, yet it is not its cautionary heat that he feels. With his hands clenched at his sides, he demands, “And what are you going to do about it, huh? Challenge me to another Fighting Circle?” He releases a scoff. “Look how well that turned out last time.”

“What I’m trying to do,” she slowly begins as if explaining to a child, which infuriates him, “is to stop you from making an even bigger fool of yourself than you already are.”

_That’s it!_

Before he knows it, he has walked around the fire and is now standing right in front of her. He straightens his posture, making his height of five-foot-eleven seem taller. Proud that he has a solid seven-inch advantage, he leans in a little to make his point. Throwing caution to the wind, he orders, “Just be completely honest with me _for once_! You keep saying _I’m_ hiding behind my helmet, but I’m not the only one wearing a mask, _Talia_.”

He had practically barked out her name, and his voice was louder than it has ever been with her, but the woman does not flinch. Nor does she seem even the faintest intimidated by him. Instead, the heat in her eyes turns icy. She straightens her stance and defiantly meets his gaze.

In a chilling tone, she says, “These ‘masks,’ as you call them, have saved my life. But you, _Mando_?” She catches herself from scoffing at him. “I think—” She taps at his head-gear with her index finger. “—that you’ve worn your helmet for so long that even _you_ don’t know who you are anymore. At least _I_ haven’t forgotten who I am underneath my masks!”

“Don’t you _dare_ think you know who I am,” he snaps, pulling away so he is no longer towering over her. “I’ve kept most of my life private. You only know the person I am because of who _I allow_ you to see.”

At this, she does let out a scoff, which transitions into a bitter laugh, short and filled with disbelief. “Now who’s being dishonest!” she exclaims. “You’re distorting who you are just so no one can get to know you.”

“Look who’s talking!” he retaliates. “Tell me the truth. Who are you? An Onderonian politician or a Mandalorian warrior?” he challenges, crossing his arms. “You know what? I think you’re afraid of choosing. But I need you to make up your mind and tell me. After all we’ve been through, you owe me that, Talia!”

She glares at him then releases a puff of hot air. As it evaporates into the cold morning, she turns around and walks over to the other side of the fire. A proud smirk twitches at the corner of his lips: he won this round.

“Fine!” she declares. He watches her grip her hands behind her back and widen her stance a little. “I’ll tell you. But I’m not afraid. Just cautious. I’ve had to be all my life.”

“As have I,” he tells her.

“Not like me, Mando,” she quietly replies, her tone as sharp as winter. “That’s where we differ.”

Talia returns to her original spot, right in front of him. He sees her bend down and reach for her old leather satchel. When he realizes that she is in the process of pulling out that mysterious, heavily locked silver case of hers, his gut twists with intrigue and excitement. It seems he will finally know what is inside it.

Holding his breath, he waits for Talia to retrieve it fully, but she freezes all of a sudden. She looks around them at the foggy forest and, much to his dismay, drops her silver box back inside her satchel. As small snowflakes cascade around them, she stands to her full height and then squints her eyes at the cloud-covered sky. Her gaze widens as if she has just caught a glimpse of an invisible enemy.

“What is it?” he asks, searching the purple heavens himself.

“Something’s wrong,” he hears her murmur.

A loud beeping cuts through the tension between them, and they both jump apart. Talia’s wrist communicator is flashing green, so she raises it to her lips.

“R6, what’s wrong?”

The droid releases a series of eager sputterings and animated chirpings. He reads: _“I’m detecting in-coming ships. They’re heading straight for us. And you!”_

His gut twists at the news, and he is about to say something when Talia orders, “Get the youngling out of here, R6! Take the _Star_ off-planet now! I’ll contact you as soon—”

“What?! No!” he shouts.

Before he can counter her command, a sharp whistling noise cuts through the still atmosphere. In a split second he is pushed backwards by an invisible force the instant an explosion engulfs the entire campsite. Time slows down, dragging this moment for what seems like hours. Din notices that he is now twenty feet away from where he had once been standing. The logs that he and Talia had been sitting on minutes ago are now devoured by a roaring fire. It eats away at anything its sizzling fingers can claim. Smoke rises into the air. He can feel the flames’ heat, and it melts the falling snowflakes that are trying to put it out.

Still flying backwards, the distance increasing to thirty feet, he sees that Talia and her belongings have also been thrown from the impact. Her petite body, falling in the opposite direction of him, soon disappears in the night. Helpless, he watches the forest and its thick fog swallow her up.

Time finally returns to normal, but it comes crashing down on him. Din lands on the snow-covered ground with a hard thud. He grunts when he feels his left shoulder blade hit a protruding tree root. His body slides a few feet over dead branches and pebbles before he comes to a complete stop. He bites the inside of his cheek to prevent him from groaning.

In a couple of seconds, he takes a quick inventory of himself. Besides the back of his shoulder, he does not think he has sustained any serious damage from the blast. He is surprised that his head does not hurt at all; Talia must have healed it completely.

Knowing he cannot stay here, lying on the cold ground, he scrambles to his feet. The movement causes any snow clinging to his gray cloak to fall off of him. He stands up, gathering his bearings, when he hears the sound of speeders zooming through the forest. Quickly, he hides behind a thick tree. With a hand resting on his holstered pistol, he takes a peek from his cover. He counts four speeders and sees that they are carrying stormtroopers all clad in winter-wear. As they sweep in towards the explosion’s site, they bring with them more fog and dancing snow.

A loud engine rumbles from above. When he searches the sky, a transport ship flies over the tops of the pine trees. Artificial wind stirs up more snowflakes, creating a man-made blizzard. The ground-troopers wave at something in the North, and before Din knows it, the transport shoots at the base of the pines. Its red lasers zing through the air, and a handful of trees crash down, rocking the mountain. Din grips the pine he is hiding behind to steady himself. Fire is ignited from the shots and begins to eat away at the fallen trees.

The Imperial transport settles in the open area that its pilot had made. Its doors swoosh open, and more stormtroopers come racing out. He counts thirty, maybe more, not including the men that arrived on the speeders. However, all of them are armed with blaster pistols and rifles of various shapes and sizes.

Din thinks of Talia. He is not sure if she survived the explosion or is lying unconscious somewhere in the forest. Either way, a full platoon of Imperials is separating them, and he has to concoct a plan to reach her. They need to get out of here and make their way to his ship. R6 had taken the baby to who knows where, and he hates the idea that his adoptive son is alone without an adult nearby.

While trying to strategize, he sees through the fog and snow that the Imps are spreading out. With their weapons trained in front of them, they are checking the area and probably looking for him and Talia. A small group is heading in the direction where his companion had landed, and his gut churns. It does not matter that they had argued only moments ago and made personal accusations against each other. Talia is still his friend and a fellow Mandalorian. No matter their differences, her secrets, and his helmet, he will not abandon her to a group of cold-blooded killers.

Instinctively, he yanks out his blaster and starts shooting. His red laser bolts meet their intended targets and eliminate two stormtroopers. As predicted, his distraction works, for someone shouts, “Enemy in the West!” which soon unleashes a thick stream of red lasers almost as thick as the fog.

The shower of ammunition hisses past him. Some disappear into oblivion while most cut into the trees and shrubs. Din knows the Imps will be closing in on his position so he darts from behind his cover, sending shots over his shoulder every few feet. He zigzags around tree trunks as the troopers continue to target him. When he uses a set of boulders as a shield, he is relieved that his plan to lead the Imps away from their landing sight and Talia is successful because all of the Imps are now following him.

Though the boulders are a perfect cover, he realizes he needs to get to higher ground if he wants to gain every little advantage that he can. The troopers are steadily moving closer, their white armor blending in with the wintry terrain. The snow falling from the purple sky is thicker, and it will do him more harm than good if he stays here any longer. He cannot afford to slip on the fresh snow or fall into a rodent’s hole.

For less than two minutes, Din remains where he is and engages with his numerous enemies. He has killed three more, meaning the Imps have lost five of them so far. He curses himself under his breath for not bringing his sniper rifle. Of course, he needs it the most when he does not have it.

Unleashing a series of shots as his cover, he removes himself from hiding behind the boulders and runs north. His right arm, still gripping his pistol, continues to fire. He jumps over a fallen tree and lands on his feet with a solid thump. The Imps are peppering him with red blaster fire, but he manages to shoot at one more.

As he continues to run, his ears pick up the sound of humming speeders. Sure enough, he counts four of them tearing through the fog. Much to his alarm, he sees that their riders are trying to give him a wide berth so they can outflank him. He knows that, if they succeed, he will either be captured or killed. Therefore, he hides behind a fallen pine tree and focuses on the troopers and their speeders.

One of his shots hits a vehicle, causing the driver to lose control. A grim smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when the speeder crashes into a large tree before exploding. The flash of light reveals how close the ground-troopers are to his position, but he cannot worry about them now. He aims for another speeder and again hits his mark. However, the vehicle is only damaged. Its engine releases a skinny trail of smoke, and its driver throws himself off of it.

Din darts from his hiding place and runs towards the tumbling Imp. Before the white-armored man can even stand up, Din aims his pistol at the Imp’s head and squeezes the trigger. Like a sack of grain, the trooper falls to the snow-covered ground, dead.

“Seven down,” he murmurs to himself. He shoots at the two speeders charging towards him. When they return fire, he rolls on the cold ground, dodging the shots.

Back on his feet, he pulls the trigger two more times. While one speeder explodes due to a well-aimed shot, the other spins out of control before ramming it and its driver into another pile of boulders.

“Nine down,” he huffs, but his victory is soon overtaken by the appearance of five troopers running parallel to his position. “Not good,” he mutters. They will soon have him surrounded if he does not act now, so he continues trekking north.

The fog is getting thicker, including the snow falling from the clouds. The sky is turning a lavender color, and he figures that dawn will be approaching in less than half an hour, maybe fifteen minutes. He dives behind another fallen log and is pleasantly surprised that some evergreen shrubs have grown around it, adding even more cover for him.

With his pulse pounding in his neck, he takes a moment to steady his breath. He hears the stormtroopers calling out to each other, and when he peeks from his hiding place, he is disappointed to learn that he is indeed surrounded. However, they do not know where he is, which can be used to his advantage. If they get in close enough to his position, maybe he can unleash some Whistling Bird missiles to eliminate a good portion of the Imps that remain.

“Come on out, Din Djarin!” one of the troopers shouts across the forest in a non-accented voice. “You’re outnumbered, and we have you surrounded.” When he holds his peace, the Imp continues, “You don’t have to make this difficult for yourself. Moff Gideon just wants the kid.”

“I killed Gideon!” he throws at the Imp, hoping his voice is muffled by the dense forest and mist.

“He’s very much alive,” the trooper informs him, much to his dismay. Talia had been right: Gideon is not easy to cross off. “He sent us to you. He’ll be arriving shortly. All he wants is the child.”

Din hears footsteps approaching him on his right. An Imp is five feet away from where he is hiding. If he does nothing, the other man is sure to step on him, but if he shoots, he will be giving away his position.

“All he wants is the child,” the trooper-turned-wannabe-negotiator calls out to him. “We’ve scanned the area. He isn’t here, is he? What have you done with him? Tell me where you put him, and you can be free from all this.”

The Imp on his right is almost on top of him, so Din points his weapon at him and fires. Before his victim falls to the ground, he has already evacuated from his hiding spot. Running towards another place to use as a shield, he shouts to the Imperial spokesman, “I don’t think so.”

He thanks Mandalore that he found a thick tree for cover. Sweat trickles down his neck as he assesses his surroundings. There are two Imps slowly coming up on his left, two on his right, and twenty or more behind him. The odds are against him, as usual.

“Your friend, whoever they were,” the stormtrooper in charge says, “is gone. We found no trace of them.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Din refuses to answer. It is paramount that he does not give away his new position. Doubt worms its way into his mind, telling him that Talia is dead, but he tries to convince himself that she must have gotten away when she had the chance. If she is dead . . . Well, he is not sure how he will handle that, so he stomps on the doubt. Besides, he cannot afford to think like that nor be distracted. He needs to eliminate these Imps _then_ go look for her. After that, he will do as he planned: get to the _Crest_ and figure out where R6 took the kid.

“Dead or alive,” the Imp calls out with faux sympathy, “your friend is of no use to you now. You’re alone.”

“Then so be it,” Din whispers, for he has always been alone.

Gathering his resolve, he briefly peeks from behind his tree. Then, with his back pressed to the bumpy trunk he sucks in a deep breath, ready to eliminate the four troopers about to outflank him.

Suddenly, off to his right, he hears a strange noise. It is like a snap-hiss. He glances in that direction, and so do the four Imps he had planned to shoot at. There, on his right, he spies a purple glowing rod hovering in the misty forest. Its light illuminates its surroundings in a supernatural glow. When it moves, the air around it hums as if bouncing off its own noise, if that is even possible.

Out of the corner of his eye, those four Imps look at each other, probably stunned behind their helmets at this strange sight just as much as he is.

The purple rod moves forward and tilts down before rising at an angle. From its glow and the approaching dawn that paints the snowy environment in shades of gray, he is now able to see the silhouette of the figure wielding this peculiar—what is it? A weapon?

Well, whoever is carrying it is slim and short in stature. A hood is over their head, making them look like Death cloaked in shadows and ambiguity. The person stalks closer to him and the stormtroopers. Dawn brightens up the forest even more, and he now recognizes the figure’s clothes: a gray wrap-like outer tunic, black trousers and boots, a silver pistol contained in a leather holster.

_It can’t be._

* * *

Talia's Attire:


	22. The Impossible

Chapter XXII: The Impossible

“Attack! Shoot the Jedi!”

 _Talia?_ Din thinks, puzzled at the command. _Talia, a Jedi? Impossible._

A swarm of red lasers race through the snowfall, past pine trees and shrubs, straight for the hooded figure. Din is glued behind his tree; his hand grips his blaster tightly as he watches the petite woman use her purple rod to deflect the shots. The glowing weapon moves so fast that it is a blur. It hisses and whirs at each contact with the lasers, and some of them are bounced back to their source, killing the Imperial stormtroopers. The men in white armor shout and drop dead like flies.

He sees that the Imps who had outflanked him have decided to go after the hooded figure instead, their blasters firing. Instinctively, he points his weapon at them and squeezes the trigger. He eliminates the two in front, and before the others can even figure out where his shots had come from, he has already aimed for the remaining pair. His finger, still wrapped around the trigger, curls inward. Red laser shots pierce through the snowflakes and lodge themselves in the spaces between their armor pieces.

As they drop to the snow-covered ground, he returns his attention back onto the hooded fig— _Talia! It’s Talia_ , his brain reminds him despite the fact that it is still blown away by what his eyes are telling him. He shakes his head, blinking hard as if that will remove the sight of Talia swinging her weapon around like some kind of warrior-sorcerer. _Why didn’t she say anything?_ he asks himself, not sure how to handle this new revelation. _Was I really so blind?_

The Imps are closing in on her, clearly forgetting about him, but Talia uses her purple weapon to fend them off. In the East he sees that a handful of stormtroopers are skirting around Talia, trying to outflank her. Din pushes off from the pine tree. Still using it as a shield, he directs his pistol at the Imps. His finger is about to squeeze the trigger, but he freezes when Talia waves a hand in the men’s direction while simultaneously using her humming weapon in the other to deflect the heavy assault of firepower. Talia’s lifted hand causes two Imps to hover over the ground for a second before they smash into each other, their white armor cracking like eggshells.

 _She does have the kid’s gift,_ Din realizes as the Imps drop to the ground, lifeless. _And she kept that from me._ His jaw clenches while something inside his chest feels as if it has been slashed by a vibroblade.

Talia jumps impossibly high into the air. Falling snowflakes cling to her hood and gray tunic, but they shake off her when she gracefully lands in a crouch on the snow-covered ground. The fog is beginning to dissipate, which allows Din to see that Talia is now behind the two Imps who had been planning to sneak up on her. Like lightning she swipes her purple weapon in front of the men. It hisses and reverberates the noise around it. She steps away from the troopers so she can focus on the dwindling platoon who is still focused on destroying her. But behind her, Din watches the two Imps slump to the ground. There are orange slashes burning across their lower abdomens. Undoubtedly, their vital organs have been sliced.

 _How’s this possible?_ he asks himself, for he has not seen a weapon this powerful, this . . . merciless before. No vibroblade can do what her glowing sword has done, not that he is aware of.

“Shoot them down!” he hears the negotiator-trooper shout above the laser fire zinging through the forest. Talia’s weapon hypnotically whirs out a song of death as she deflects the onslaught.

“But sir!” another Imp argues, his voice painted with fear. “It’s a Jedi! We’ve never fought a Jedi before. Let alone kill one!”

At that moment, Din watches Talia use her telekinetic skills to push five stormtroopers to their backs, which gives her enough time to leap inhumanly far to the southwest. Her glowing blade lights up the dwindling mist and the snow as she employs her gift to tug an Imp towards her. He yells out but is abruptly silenced when Talia’s purple weapon pierces him, straight through his heart. As the trooper’s body sags, Talia pulls her humming blade out of him. Before the man hits the ground, she is dodging red laser shots, twisting her body out of harm’s way. And all Din can do is stand there, mouth open like an idiot.

“Just do it!” he hears the stormtrooper in charge order. He pushes his comrade closer to the ever-moving Talia. “And take their lightsaber! Moff Gideon will reward us!”

“But we can’t fight against the Force!” the scared trooper argues, yet his superior shoves him forward despite the protests.

 _The Force?_ Din wonders. The term sounds ridiculous to him. _Is that really what her gift is called?_ He shakes his head, which causes him to notice that a daring Imp has decided to charge Talia from behind. Without thinking, Din aims for the trooper and shoots him. _And what’s a lightsaber? Is that the purple rod she’s using? Or is it a sword?_ He eyes the weapon carefully and notices that Talia is holding what looks like a hilt. Originating from that is her glowing blade. _So, it’s a saber of some kind._ Though he has never heard of this type of weapon before, he thinks that its name, “lightsaber,” is fitting—more so than this “Force.”

Knowing he needs to stop watching the action like a bewildered fool, he darts from behind his tree. He follows Talia’s example and goes on the offensive. With his gray cloak fluttering behind him, he charges after the Imps who are all following orders to surround Talia in a tight circle. Din counts eleven troopers remaining. Their firepower is getting more rapid, and so is Talia’s . . . lightsaber—that _is_ its correct name, right?

He starts shooting at the Imps. Two of his shots miss, but one hits a trooper in the shoulder. At this, he finds three Imps turning around, and in the blink of an eye, they start firing at him. He dodges the attack, rolling to the ground in an uncomfortable summersault. A shot pings off his left shoulder-guard, and the noise sounds like a loud cymbal amongst the steady humming of Talia’s lightsaber.

As his body tumbles to the woodland floor, he can hear the Imps running towards him. When he rolls onto his stomach, he points his left arm in their direction and unleashes a stream of orange fire from his gauntlet. The troopers shout in horror as the relentless flames lick at their armor pieces and their tunics underneath. The snowflakes falling around them melt as the troopers scramble to get as far away from him as possible. It gives him an opportunity to rise to his feet. He then ends his arson attack and shoots the three men in their chests, putting them out of their misery. They drop like rocks, their bodies still engulfed by the hungry flames.

Glancing around, he counts eight Imps left. He hears the lead trooper shout into his commlink: “Patch me through to Moff Gideon!”

As Din eliminates another Imp with his blaster, Talia chooses that moment to throw her lightsaber. Time slows down around him, and the numerous red blaster fire glide through the snowy atmosphere at a lazy Hutt’s pace.

Talia’s weapon spins like a purple blur. Instinctively, Din drops to the ground even though the lightsaber is not remotely close to hitting him. With wide eyes he watches the glowing weapon twirl in a wide circle, hissing and tearing across the frozen air in front of the stormtroopers. One by one he witnesses the men slump to their knees—their bodies, headless. White helmets roll atop the snow as Talia flips backwards and spirals her body with grace and agility to avoid being shot. Her back is to him when she lands on her feet, but Din’s eyes revert to the decapitated stormtroopers lying dead in the snow. His throat tightens; he swallows hard as he surveys the blood flowing from the men’s neck wounds. Small rivers of bright crimson stain the pure snow, and the air is now filled with copper and burnt flesh, both scents making his gut twist.

When he lifts his gaze, searching for the lightsaber, he sees that it still flying through the snowy air, and it appears to be heading towards its owner again. It has killed four Imps so far, but the weapon keeps on swirling as if it is acting on its own volition, which he knows to be impossible. Only Talia and her gift are responsible for the weapon’s continual killing spree.

As the deadly saber is in the process of decapitating its next victim, Din notices Talia raising her hand in the direction of one Imp. The man lifts into the air, drops his weapon, and frantically clutches his neck as if trying to remove an invisible hand from choking him. Above the humming lightsaber and the sharp pings from the blasters, Din can hear the levitated trooper gasp. The man’s breaths are ragged as he struggles to breathe. With the flick of Talia’s wrist, a loud snap penetrates the noisy environment, and the trooper goes limp.

Talia then stretches her hand to the left, sending the dead man to crash into two of his fellow troopers. As Din rises to his feet, she catches her lightsaber by the hilt. He blinks and watches her somersault through the air, straight towards the dazed Imps. In a flash, she swings her glowing weapon; it hums as it tears through the men’s heaving chests, terminating them.

“Moff Gideon!” the final stormtrooper shouts into his comms. He has not realized that all of his men are dead. “I have to report that a—”

Before he can finish, the last Imp has flown towards Talia faster than humanly possible. This invisible Force allows her to spear him through the heart with her purple blade. Din flinches at the sight. The trooper gasps, drops his commlink, and sucks in his last breath. Talia then pulls her weapon out of his chest, and the man sinks onto the ground with the rest of the Imps.

The sun is beginning to stream through the pine trees, its golden glow inappropriately happy as it brightens this miniature battlefield. The falling snow has chased away the fog whilst covering up the scarlet blood and lifeless bodies with its delicate flakes. How many did Talia kill? He had lost count after twenty. On instinct, Din feels himself take a defensive stance. His feet dig into the ground, ready to dodge an attack from his so-called friend the instant she decides to turn around and explain herself.

He hears her breathing heavily. While her shoulders move at each inhale and exhale, her hand is steady as she continues to hold her glowing weapon. Her lightsaber is still humming with life, its purple blade hissing every time snowflakes land on it.

In less than a second, questions hammer him like a hurricane. _Who are you? Why didn’t you tell me? You lied to me from the very beginning! Were you_ ever _going to tell me? You’re a Mandalorian! How can you be an enemy to our Creed?_

The last question automatically makes him clutch his blaster tighter. Since she deceived him about who she is and what she is capable of, since she is this Jedi-sorcerer and an enemy to his culture, their entire friendship has been based on a foundation of falsehoods. How can he trust her now?

 _She’s after the kid,_ a quiet voice whispers to him. The inside of his chest feels like it just received another slash from a vibroblade. _And that’s always been her priority, ever since we met on Cholganna. She was just like the kid this whole time. How could I have been so blind?_

Anger, betrayal, realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and he slowly raises his pistol at her turned back. How does he know that she will not kill him, too? Her secret is out. Gideon is alive, and he may want to get his hands on her, a gifted individual. Knowing the former Moff, he will come to Galidraan and find an entire platoon of his men slaughtered. And since Talia has kept this secret so close to her chest, she probably cannot afford for Din to be a witness, fellow Mando or not.

 _She’s_ not _a Mandalorian,_ he heatedly thinks. His hand begins to shake as he continues to point his blaster at the stranger whom he thought was a friend.

Movement catches his attention, yanking him back to the present. Talia finally turns around. He cannot see her face because she is still wearing her hood, yet he continues to aim the barrel of his pistol at her. Snow settles atop her gray outer tunic; her black boots are slick with melted snow. The emerald pendant dangling from her gold necklace seems to pulse with life. A click reaches his ears, and her purple blade sounds like it sucks itself in as it decreases in length. In an instant, it disappears completely, and Talia is left gripping a dull silver and gold hilt.

When she lifts her head, he holds his breath, expecting her to explain herself. He angles his own head to the side so he can look at her better, but her hood clouds her face in shadow. All he can see clearly is her jawline and mouth. Her dark pink lips are parted a little as she regulates her breathing. Puffs of white, her hot breath clashing with the cold air, evaporate into the morning.

He sees that the snowfall is thinning out, and the sun is beginning to break through the clouds. Remnants of fog float to the tree branches while strong, yellow beams penetrate through the pines and illuminate Talia’s cloaked figure.

The two of them stare at each other, him still aiming his blaster at her, yet his finger only ghosts across the trigger. He does not know what to say despite the numerous questions bouncing inside his helmet. But Talia also remains silent.

A heartbeat passes, then two. Three. Four.

Talia walks towards him. He stiffens after she takes a few steps, and somehow, she knows that because she stops. Slowly, she attaches the end of her lightsaber hilt to her belt. The dangerous weapon dangles beside her. She then raises her hands before her as if she is placating an untamed beast, but he refuses to drop his weapon. His arm is now steady, showing her that he will not back down. So, Talia lifts a hand and removes her hood.

With her head angled to the ground, her dark hair and single braid are able to drape over her shoulders. While her locks hide her face like velvet curtains, snowflakes delicately land on her exposed head. With critical eyes he watches Talia crouch on the snowy earth. Her right knee digs into the cold ground while the other holds her up. She bows her head to him as her right hand turns into a fist before pressing into the snow. He blinks at her, once again stunned by her action. Of all things for her to do at this moment, he had not been expecting for her to display an uncommon sign of complete surrender and humility to him.

 _“Ni ceta, Mando_ * _,”_ she tells him, breaking the tension swirling around them.

 _(_ * _pronounced: nee SET-ah MAHN-do; translation: “Sorry, Mando”; literally: “I kneel”; significance: groveling apology—very rare)_

This act should appease his anger, should prompt him to signal for her to stand up. Except, it hardly diffuses the emotions rattling inside his chest. For someone who has been raised as a Mandalorian for most of his life, he cannot believe what she is doing. The position Talia has taken is one that is hardly ever used, and Din has seen this happen only once before—and never has it been directed at him. Members of his Creed are proud, stubborn, independent. To kneel, to expose their neck, to drop their eyes, to make themselves entirely vulnerable all show complete submission to the person they are kneeling to. It is also a sign of utter trust and surrender.

Din feels his hand shake again as it holds his pistol in a death-grip. He must revere this act even if the woman doing it has been dishonorable to him by keeping a secret about her Jedi and Force connection.

For a moment, he listens to his gut, hoping it will churn at the idea of putting down his weapon. But it does not warn him like he expects. While his brain yells at him not to trust Talia, instinct whispers to him that he needs to if he hopes to get answers from her. So, with a scowl directed at both himself and his lying companion, Din begrudgingly lowers his blaster—all for the sake of honoring this rare convention. He even makes a point of shoving his weapon back into his holster with more noise than is necessary. Yet, Talia does not move nor lift up her head to look at him.

“All this time?” he asks. His gravelly voice is unable to hide his anger and bitterness.

“I tried to tell you,” she replies, her elegant accent soft as she continues to stare at the ground.

In a tone as hard as Beskar, he demands, “So what stopped you?”

A heartbeat passes, and he knows she is choosing her words carefully. After another beat, she replies, “Self-preservation. It’s not that I didn’t trust you. I’ve kept this secret since I was twelve years old,” she explains. “It’s a part of me to keep it hidden. It’s instinct.”

He thinks about what she said about her uncle, Zeb—if that was actually her uncle. She mentioned that people with his gift, this Force ability, had been hunted down by the Empire. From what Ryk’ken had told him, the special individuals who were captured were taken to Mustafar to be experimented on. No wonder Talia was determined to raid that laboratory and base. She wanted to rescue those just like her and free them from that nightmare of a planet.

 _Why didn’t she tell me she was one of them?_ he fumes, clenching his fists at his sides.

“The Imps called you a Jedi,” he points out coldly.

“I had trained to be one since I was three,” is her answer.

_And she’s forty-two like me. She’s had almost forty years of learning to become one._

“Had?” he presses, confused. She made it sound like she is a beginner. If this morning’s battle has showed him one thing, it is that she is far from being a novice in her Force wielding skills.

“At the end of the Clone War, the entire Jedi Order . . .” She sucks in a sharp breath. “My people were . . . massacred.”

The sorrow in her Coruscant accent triggers a memory. He is reminded of the time when Talia said to Burg several weeks ago about the Empire destroying a race because they were a threat. He now realizes that she had not been talking about Alderaan like he thought. No, she was referring to these Jedi—her people. Not only has she lost Mandalorians but also a group of individuals who shared her gift. Both tragedies combined is enough to cripple someone, yet he refuses to allow himself to feel sorry for her right now.

Talia’s voice, thick with grief and regret, brings him back to the present as she reveals, “The Jedi were generals in the Republic military. We led clone troopers into battle for three years.” She clears her throat. “But they were ordered to turn on us. It was because Emperor Palpatine declared that the Jedi were traitors to the Republic. He arranged that we be executed for crimes we didn’t commit. We were butchered all across the galaxy.”

A quiet sniffle reaches his ears. It seems that Talia was trying to make the sound imperceptible, but he is still able to catch it. He even thinks he sees a couple drops of water fall onto the snow.

Not wanting to believe them to be tears, he challenges, “If the Jedi were supposed to be wiped out, then how’d you survive?”

“My Master . . . Zebedee Asher . . . He died protecting me.”

_So, he wasn’t her uncle after all._

“Master?” he questions, for the title disturbs him. He cannot imagine this woman being someone’s property. “Were you a slave?”

“No. An Apprentice,” she breathes out, still staring at the ground. “I was called a Padawan. I trained under a mentor—a master. Zeb taught me in the ways of the Force.”

 _What_ is _this Force?_ he wonders, but he will have to ask about it later. All that matters is that he now knows what her and the kid’s gift is called.

“You lied to me,” he says through clenched teeth. He can feel his fisted hands aching in their tight grip, but he does not release them. “I don’t even know how many times you have. You’re not a Mandalorian. You can’t be. We don’t keep secrets this extreme from each other.”

“Only if your life depends on it.”

A scoff escapes his lips. Crossing his arms, he counters, “And yours did?”

“Yes. The Jedi were branded as dangerous, as enemies of the Republic. I _had_ to keep my powers—and my lightsaber—a secret. If the Empire knew I was a Padawan, they would’ve killed me. And my family.”

He cocks an eyebrow at the last part of her explanation. Thinking that it is a little too extreme, he asks, “Why them? For protecting you?”

With a nod, she answers, “That, and because sometimes the Force is hereditary. They would’ve wanted to make sure no one else had it, too. My mother did, just a little.”

“And that’s how you got it,” he states more than asks. When she gives him another nod, his brain brings a new question to the front. Dropping his arms to his sides again, he demands, “Why are you interested in the kid?”

“I want to protect him.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” he scoffs. He notices it has stopped snowing.

“I swear it on the _Resol’nare_ * that I’m telling you the truth,” she vows. “And I will do so for as long as I know you.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: RAY-sol NAH-ray; significance: Six Actions, the tenets of the Mandalorian life)_

Talia cranes her neck so she can look up at him. The sun’s rays enhance her tanned skin and give her a golden halo around her hair. Not for the first time, she stares at him, her dark eyes piercing all the way past his helmet—but he cannot handle her gaze. Not now. Not after this.

Preferring that she stop studying him, stop trying to make him feel sorry for her with her sincere regard, he signals to her with his gloved hand, pointing it down. Immediately, she angles her head and lowers her eyes to the ground again.

“Don’t insult my culture’s most sacred beliefs,” he rebukes her. “You have no right. You’re not one of us. You can’t swear by it.”

“Yes, I _can_ ,” she retaliates, and he detects offence in her polished accent. “I have every right. I’ve done my best to live by the Creed. I am a _blood_ -Mandalorian.”

“Half,” he bites back.

“I was raised in our ways,” she continues as if she did not hear him. “True, I never officially swore myself to the Creed, but that’s because there are some things that they believe in that my Jedi Code forbids. And I couldn’t swear to it anyways because I had already dedicated my life to the Jedi.” She places both of her hands on the bended knee holding her up. “Only a couple of Dxun Chiefs know about my past. And even they knew I couldn’t serve two Codes. So—”

“So,” he interrupts, “why didn’t they see you as an enemy?”

“They did. At first.” Talia sighs, releasing a puff of white air. “The Jedi and the Mandalorians have a history filled with blood and violence. The enmity between them goes back thousands of years.

“Jedi are peacekeepers; Mandalorians are warriors. And when warriors lead bloodshed and chaos to innocent people, peacekeepers step in and defend the helpless. Instead of backing away,” she continues, “Mandalorians had seen Jedi as an ultimate prize to hunt down like trophies. The Force gave the Jedi strength and power that made them a challenge to Mandalorians.”

“But you dedicated your life to protecting Mandos from the Empire,” he points out, his mouth forming into a scowl. “And Onderon, too. You were Clan Leader for years.”

“ _Because_ I respected and valued both of my cultures, Mando,” she explains. “I earned my place amongst them.” He watches her fiddle with her emerald pendant. “I may be a warrior by blood and a politician by trade, but I am a Jedi at heart. First and foremost, I am a peacekeeper. If my Order couldn’t help protect my cultures from the Empire, then it was my duty to try.”

 _And she has done so,_ a firm voice tells him. _Even though her sorcerers have almost been made extinct._ The voice in his head sounds awfully like his Tribe’s Armorer. He tries not to listen to it but is unsuccessful.

Despite being alone and one of the last of her kind, Talia had striven to become the peacekeeper that she had been trained to be. A part of him admits that she has fulfilled her Jedi duty well since she had kept it up for thirty years without getting caught. But his anger towards her, towards her deception, clouds him, making it almost impossible for him to admire her actions. More than anything right now, he wants to condemn her for carrying out her pretense with him for so long. She should have told him that she shared the kid’s gift the instant she met him.

“So, you want to protect the kid because he’s like you,” he observes aloud.

“Yes. The Force is strong with him. I haven’t felt that with anyone since the Clone War ended.” Her voice sounds distant as if she is re-living days long past gone. “I want to help him continue to understand his power. And to help him discipline it.”

Although they had agreed on these two ideas weeks ago, Talia repeating them now makes him feel protective of the baby. Sharply, he asks, “Why? He’s doing fine.”

“The Force,” she reasons, “is an entity of good. Light. But there is no Light without the Dark.”

He blinks at her. “And what does that mean?”

For a moment, he watches Talia run her teeth over her lower lip. “What he did with Cara,” she begins. “Choking her? That was a glimpse of the Dark Side in him. He made the Force serve him for selfish reasons. He used it to hurt her.”

Not understanding this Dark or Light Side concept, he comes to his adoptive son’s defense. “He’s just a baby! And he was trying to save me because he thought I was in danger.”

“Yes, I know,” she patiently replies. “He still has much to learn, Mando. I want to teach him. To show him what I’ve learned.”

“No!” he barks out. “I don’t trust you.”

“But I’ve already begun to teach him,” she answers, her voice calm. “You said the youngling stopped you and your friends from being burnt alive on Nevarro. He couldn’t have done that if I didn’t train him with those candles back on Onderon.”

Din feels his throat go dry at the revelation, but Talia continues.

“You also said he healed Greef Karga. He watched me do that to him on Dxun. The youngling had a scratch from touching a thorn, and I healed him. I’ve been training him every chance I got.”

The news makes his stomach twist. He is not sure whether to be proud of the baby’s progress these past few months or to feel sick that Talia had done all this behind his back. That woman and her secrets.

“You could have told me about this, and you didn’t,” he snaps through tight lips. “I don’t want you near him anymore. Look at what you’ve done!” He gestures to lifeless stormtroopers, the men that she had killed moments ago. “You just wiped out these guys. And you want to teach _a child_?”

Talia glances over her shoulder. When she faces forward again, he notices that her eyes are closed, as if she is trying to erase the scene from her memory. She takes in a deep breath, opens them again, and says, “I did it to protect you. And to defend myself.”

Ignoring the sentiment behind her words, he focuses on a hidden implication and allows himself to feel offended. “I’m not helpless,” he reprimands her. “I was doing fine without you.”

With her gaze lowered so that she is still staring at the snow, she answers, “Perhaps. But I wasn’t willing to risk your life on a chance. Not when I could help.” She pauses, and the tense silence between them is almost unbearable. “But you have to know,” she adds, “that the Force didn’t just lead me to the youngling. It led me to you.”

He jerks his head at this. _The Force ‘leads’ her? What in the name of Mandalore does_ that _mean? What else can it do?_

“Me?” he asks, his tone heavy with suspicion. “Why?”

Disappointment mixes with frustration when Talia shakes her head. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t completely understand it myself. All I know, all I can feel, is that you . . . you are just as important to me as the youngling.”

The sentiment is too much for Din to hear right now, so he walks away from her and begins to pace. He forces himself not to dwell on her words or to be reminded of how genuine her voice was at the confession. He cannot afford to grow soft, especially since there may be a chance that Talia had said those things as a ploy to enter into his good graces. His boots crunch in the freshly fallen snow, and he makes a pathway as he tries to think clearly.

His anger wants to unleash its scorching fury on her. The inside of his chest tightens, and the back of his neck heats up. Unknowingly, his gloved hand briefly grips the handle of his holstered blaster as he tries to dissect Talia’s explanation. He should not take her word for it just because she promised to tell him the truth. Her true identity, her story—there are still holes in it. Yet, despite how much he wants to deny it, they have shed a large amount of light on her and explained some of the peculiarities that have revolved around her since Cholganna.

Against his will and stubbornness, things start falling into place. This Force can heal people; he had seen it himself when the baby healed Greef. The longer he thinks about it, the more it becomes clearer to him that Talia healed herself from her Nexu wound—which is why her side injury was not as deadly as he expected. And, she had passed out from it just like the baby nearly did after helping Greef.

 _And Rami,_ he thinks to himself. _She healed him, too._ On Dxun, the young man’s side was spilling out blood like a fountain, yet when Clae inspected it, she told them that Rami’s injury was not too bad. Talia had healed him, or at least tried to, before also slipping into unconsciousness. _That’s why me and Lance and Kurs found her passed out on top of the kid._

 _What about you, Din Djarin?_ his Armorer’s voice presses him.

As he turns around so he can continue to pace, he feels his jaw clench. Yes, Talia had healed him, too. Of _that_ , he is sure. His concussion, his headache, the pain—it has all completely disappeared. Bacta could not have worked as fast and as efficient as this Force can. He doubts he would have been able to eliminate as many stormtroopers as he did if he had been distracted by his concussion. Talia healed him, knowing that he would be angry at her once she told him her secret. And from what he has figured, with her generous nature, she has undoubtedly used her gift to help people.

But when he glances around him, sees the dead bodies littering the forest floor, he realizes that there is a dangerous side to her Force. Is that what she was trying to warn him about, concerning the baby? That the little one can heal but can also inflict . . . death? Din’s eyes veer towards the rich blood coloring the snow. He never liked stormtroopers and could care less that they are dead. But if this is what Talia can do to her enemies, no wonder Mandalorians have fought her Jedi. There is something horrifying yet admirable with what she had accomplished—and it had been all for the sake of defense and protection. As a Mando, those are two things that he can appreciate.

However, he is not sure right now what to think, what to do, what to say. The bounty hunter side of him wants to yank out his pistol and remove this Jedi from his life. Yet common sense intervenes, telling him that he will not get very far with this idea. He knows Talia has quick reflexes—almost unnatural. Plus, he figures this Force ability and that lightsaber of hers will stop him before he can even retrieve his weapon.

He finishes his pacing and studies the woman in question. Talia is now kneeling with both knees pressing onto the ground. He can see the snow melting into her black trousers as her hands lie atop her thighs. Though her back is straight, her shoulders are relaxed. He notes that her head is slightly angled down while her gaze is lowered—still in utter submission to him. It both impresses and infuriates him at the same time. On Cholganna he remembers thinking of her as a woman of contradictions. Maybe a part of him knew she was special like the kid. Why did he not notice it sooner? He wishes he can go back in time and tell his past self to open his eyes and see her clearly.

Frustration eats away at his patience towards her. He knows there is much more she needs to explain, and even if she does fill in the gaps, experience tells him that he should not believe her. What he needs to do is get out of here and find his adoptive son. Who knows where that annoying astromech droid has taken him?

“I don’t have time for this. Or for you,” he mutters. “If Gideon really is alive, he’ll be almost here right now.” He begins to walk away, but Talia’s diplomatic accent stops him.

“No, he isn’t. That trooper was lying.”

The certainty behind her voice jerks him to a halt. With tense muscles, he marches back and stands in front of her again. “How do you know?” he challenges. It is not as if she was able to see that Imp’s face so she could discern if he was lying.

“I sensed it,” she replies. “He reeked of fear and deceit.”

Din frowns. “I don’t believe you.”

_And I really need to find out what else this Force can do._

“I understand,” she calmly replies, and he does not detect a hint of offense in her voice. “But if Gideon was on his way, then I would’ve suggested that we leave this place quite some time ago.”

For a moment, he considers her words. She wants to stay alive just as much as he does. He may not allow himself to trust her again, but instinct points out that he can rely on her self-preservation and her stubborn will to survive.

“I have to go anyways,” he huffs in frustration. “And I want my kid back, okay?” His hand automatically settles atop his holstered pistol again. “So, tell me where your trash compactor droid took him.”

“I don’t know where they are. You heard me: I only told him to take the youngling out of here.”

Tilting his head to the side, he surveys her with a critical eye. Talia’s interest in the baby is true—that much he knows. Since she is stranded on the planet, he assumes she has no reason to lie to him.

“Then you’re going to contact your ship,” he orders. “And you tell R6 to come back here.”

“My communicator isn’t strong enough to do that,” she replies, shaking her head. When she looks up at him, he tries not to feel startled by her dark eyes. They reflect the morning light, and serenity emanates from her gaze. “But the _Crest_ can reach them,” she tells him.

“Do you actually think I want you on my ship after this?” he snaps at her. “Tell me how to reach the droid.”

Her brows rise at the demand. “So you can leave me here?” she asks in a tone that says, ‘Do you think I’m naïve?’

“So it can come back,” he curtly answers.

“You know we can’t stay here _that_ long,” Talia reasons, her gaze steady. “Gideon is probably heading to Galidraan right now, and R6 might not make it back in time.” She takes in a deep breath before slowly releasing it. “We need to work together on this. Whether you like it or not, Mando.”

 _Yeah, I_ don’t _like it,_ he inwardly growls. _I don’t want to work with you, you Jedi. I don’t trust you. Especially with that lightsaber of yours._

Though his stubbornness kicks in, he can feel common sense once again knocking on his door, urging him to listen to it. But he tries to fight it. He does not want what Talia said to make sense. The blow she dealt him feels like a slash from a vibroblade to the side. The wound is infected with her lies, tainting everything they have gone through together: the Nexu fight, his residence at Dewan Manor, her teasing and comfort, the race to save the baby in Iziz, the Dxun rescue that he had taken a part in, the fiasco with Ran and the merc team. Were all of those things—the sincerity, the kindness, her history that she shared with him—just one gigantic lie?

_Maybe. And I believed her._

Now he knows that he should not have. His gut should have figured out that she was no good, a waste of his time, an enemy in Bantha clothing. And here he thought that she was his ally.

A teammate.

A fellow Mando.

His . . . friend.

But she lied to him, manipulated him. He has learned too late that the saddest thing about any kind of betrayal is that it never comes from an enemy. He should not have let her become that close to him. Yet, she did. How could she have lied to him like this? She claimed that she trusted him, but that cannot be really true. Or else she would have told him about her secret, self-preservation or not.

“I understand that you’re doubting me,” she says, her accent sad yet calm. “You don’t know what’s the truth or what’s a lie. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I shouldn’t have kept this from you for so long. It’s just . . .” She sighs. “The moments when I _was_ planning to tell you . . . the timing felt . . . off.”

The confession, sincere or not, reminds him of when he had overheard her conversation with Thea. Her cousin urged her to tell a man something important. Back then, he thought the women were talking about Ryk’ken. But after today, he realizes that they had been referring to him all that time.

“You told Thea you didn’t think I’d understand,” he blurts out. Talia’s gaze shifts from the side to his visor. Surprise is in her eyes, and he smugly revels in it, glad that he is still able to catch her off-guard. “Yeah, I heard,” he almost sneers. “So, Thea knows about you.”

Talia nods. “She’s my closest relative. Of course she knows.”

“So does Ryk’ken,” he presses. Again, he receives another nod, and he feels his simmering frustration heighten. “How many other people have you told?” he bites.

The atmosphere between them is filled with twittering birds and a crow cawing in the distance, but Talia says nothing and lowers her gaze. His blood is on the verge of boiling. Her silence proves to him even more that she has not taken him into her confidence, not truly.

“Who else knows?” he demands with more force.

“Telling you will only anger you more,” she replies. “You’ll see it as a deeper betrayal.”

“I have to know.”

She cocks a dark brow at him. “Do you? Why?” she queries. “So you can wallow in my lies and use them as an excuse to dislike me even more?”

Something inside his chest winces at the dart she threw at him. Her words are too close to wisdom for his liking, but he ignores the escape route she is offering him. He needs to know who else was privy to her secret.

“Just tell me.”

“You’re bringing hurt to yourself,” she argues softly. “I don’t want you to feel like a fool or a toy, that I used you for my own means. I just met you over three months ago. The people who know about me are those I’ve grown up with or fought with for years. But,” she sighs when he crosses his arms defiantly in front of him. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

She pauses, giving him one more chance. When he says nothing, she nods at him. Facing forward, her eyes fixated behind him, she answers, “Besides Thea and Dacob? Kavan knows. A few Dxunian Clan Leaders, like I said before. Ridha, R6,” she lists off, “Lance, and Daggeron Locke. I’m sure Qasim suspects, but he didn’t exploit it. The remaining members of my special forces team with the Rebel Alliance knew. So did my old handler. And now . . . you.”

The account is irritatingly long, but even he has to admit that it is the appropriate length. The people who are aware of her past actually have the right to know.

“And the kid?” he asks, even though the answer is obvious.

“Yes, he knows.” He sees a fond smile, small and sweet, play on her lips. “He felt it the moment we met. He sensed the Force flowing through me just like it does with him.”

 _And that’s why he’s so attached to her,_ he realizes to himself.

“I tried to be as honest as I could with you. I know this sounds like an excuse,” she quickly adds, “but I told you the truth more often than I told you lies.”

A part of him believes her. She could not have worn a mask for as long as she had without getting tired, without allowing the real her to bleed through. From his experience, the most believable lies are mostly based on the truth. And she _did_ get tired—so much so that she resigned as Clan Leader, fled to Cholganna, and left her family and homeworld. She really did want to be free, from her façades, her gilded cage at Dewan Manor, her political life.

As he stares into her eyes, he realizes this is the most relaxed that he has ever seen her. She seems relieved that her secret has finally been revealed, and something tells him that she longs to be herself—which is who she is right now with him. If she confided in him earlier, she would have had one less person to pretend in front of.

He wants to hold her deception against her. He is more than tempted to cast her aside and abandon her here on Galidraan. But he knows what it is like to hide, to be engulfed by fear, to be hunted down. He and his Tribe have felt that, and much more, ever since the Great Purge years ago. They fled for their lives from the Empire, and they travelled throughout the Outer Rim like nomads and refugees. Though their most recent hiding place had been the sewers on Nevarro, they had once again been slaughtered by Imperial forces. He is one of the rare few who survived. It appears that Talia has more in common with him than he wants to admit. But this similarity is not the main reason why he cannot leave her here. After all, he still owes her a debt.

Remembering that turns his anger into a blizzard of hurt and resentment. Talia had saved his life from a Nexu on Cholganna. She did not have to; she could have used this Force to push the feline out of the way _. Why didn’t she?_ he asks himself. At least he would have discovered her secret from the beginning. _And it would’ve saved me from this . . . whatever this is._ But then, they _had_ just met at the time, and he was not very nice to her, which is probably why she did not tell him. Instead, she had chosen to be selfless and placed herself in danger—and all for him, a stranger. _Why didn’t she take the easy way out and use the Force?_ he wonders.

A moment passes before the answer comes to him: because, after hiding her gift for so long, she more than likely grew accustomed to doing things the hard way on more than one occasion.

 _And you cannot let her act go unrecognized,_ his Armorer’s voice points out to him. _Honor demands that you fulfill your debt to her._

 _Even though she’s lied to me?_ he protests to his absent mentor. But he already knows what her response will be. He needs to stop acting like a defiant teenager and start behaving like the Mandalorian warrior he is. He _will_ pay off his debt; that way, no one will be able to accuse him of disregarding tradition. He may not have much in this life, but he will have a clear conscience and a stainless record where honor is concerned.

“Get up,” he curtly tells his former friend. “I owe you a debt, Talia—if that’s even your real name. That’s the only reason why I’m not letting you stay here for the Imps to get you. I won’t dishonor my integrity or my culture.”

He wants to ignore the slight flinch she gives at his words, but it replays in his mind’s eye. After a few seconds, Talia obeys and rises to her feet.

“I understand,” she quietly replies. “But since it appears that my affiliation with you is so . . . offensive to you, I can release you from your debt.”

If he heard that a couple of months ago, he would have jumped at this new offer. But now, his back stiffens while he clenches his jaw. _Is this her idea of taking the easy way out?_ he inwardly grumbles. He straightens his shoulders. No, she will _not_ get to escape how uncomfortable he is or how awkward she has made things between them. She will deal with this just as much as he will. And for as long as he has to. Besides, it is her fault he does not trust her.

However, judging from how calm she is, something tells him that she had offered to free him for his own sake. How can she keep on putting him first after the way he has barked at her, accused her of being a liar? Her selfless nature irks him. He did not ask her to grow attached to him.

“ _I_ get to decide when my debt’s paid off. Not you,” he snaps.

He is not sure why he expects her to argue back, to send him a stubborn glare and point out where he is wrong. And he inwardly kicks himself for feeling disappointed when she only nods at him. Her eyes are dim, and a straight line conquers her lips.

“Very well,” she answers, dusting the snow from her trousers. “And for what it’s worth—” She glances at him, her expression neutral. “—I spent too many restless nights debating whether to tell you or not. I just hope you can forgive me some day.”

In a flash, he remembers something his old Death Watch trainer had once said about betrayal and reconciliation: _‘Yeah, you can be good enough to forgive someone, if you want. Just don’t be stupid enough to trust them again, kiddo.’_ The cold advice calms him, joining with his already icy anger and frustration. A shot of reality hits him as dawn transitions into morning. He needs to think, to rely on solid facts. Emotions are misleading, especially right now.

“Forgiveness isn’t important,” he says in a clipped tone. “Trust is. And you’ve broken it. I don’t trust you. And frankly, I don’t want to. But I want my kid back.” He points at her. “You’re how I’m going to do that. And once I get him—”

“Let’s not think that far ahead,” she interrupts. “One step at a time, Mando. Okay?” She does not wait for him to reply. Instead, she turns around. Over her shoulder, she adds, “And I did give you my real name.”

With nothing else to say to her, Din follows her east. Their boots crunch in the ankle-deep snow. While they sidestep dead stormtroopers, a whispering breeze causes some snow to fall from the tree branches. He feels his gray cloak flutter behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Talia’s dark hair float in the wind, but he looks up at the sky. It is a rosy pink; the clouds have disappeared completely. An eagle-like bird screeches across the forest, and he spies some rodents running south.

They are about to leave the aftermath of their miniature battleground behind them when Talia stops walking. When she turns herself around, he halts and follows her gaze. He realizes that she is surveying her handiwork. It is too early in the morning for scavengers to feed on the corpses.

 _We don’t have time for this,_ he complains.

“What is it?” he coldly demands.

“It’s just . . .” she begins, her accent sounding far away. “This is the first time since the Clone War that I’m . . . well, I’m not going to cover up the evidence of my part in a fight.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

Talia runs her fingers over her lightsaber as it hangs on the left side of her black leather belt. Its dull silver and gold hilt looks brighter in the morning sun. “A lightsaber is a very recognizable weapon. I would always have to initiate an explosion at the end of my missions,” she explains. “You know, to hide the fact that I used it.”

This new information flips a mental switch for him. He remembers what Ryk’ken had once said about her, that she only did suicide assignments for the Rebel Alliance. At the time, Din thought that was because Talia is a reckless person who dove into things without seriously forming a plan. But after today, he realizes that her lightsaber and her Force ability were assets that could help her succeed where regular people could not.

“That’s why you only did suicide ops,” he comments. “No survivors.”

She nods, her eyes distant. “I couldn’t let the Empire find out about me.”

“But your Rebel friends did.”

“Only a small team of twenty knew I was a Jedi,” she shares. “But that number dwindled quickly. And my handler made sure not to replace them. For security purposes.”

“The Empire’s gone,” he reminds her, his earlier frustration bleeding through a little. “Has been for five years. You should have stopped hiding.”

 _And told me,_ he silently adds.

“But I’d been hiding for twenty-five years at that time,” she argues, now looking at him again. “I couldn’t just let everyone know that I was a Jedi. I couldn’t wear my lightsaber so freely. Not after keeping this about me as a secret for so long.” With heavy shoulders, she walks away. In a whisper as soft as the wind, he hears her say, “I don’t expect you to understand, Din Djarin.”

Hearing his name from her jolts him. He had not expected that even though he should have. After all, that loud-mouth stormtrooper had called out to him, yelling his real name across the forest. Talia would have to have been deaf not to hear it.

As he trails behind her, he is not sure if he likes that she knows his name or not. True, he planned on telling her while he was escaping Nevarro. But as he wrestled with his headache and trudged through the snowy woodland, he decided not to say anything. At the time, he had been too frustrated at her. And now, after discovering that she lied to him, he had every intention to close himself up in a Beskar-made cocoon.

“You must have more questions,” Talia breaks into his thoughts. He notices that she is picking up her satchel and backpack from behind a tree. Neither of her belongings look as if they had been damaged by the explosion earlier. “Ask me whatever you like. I promised to tell you the truth.”

_As if I’d believe you._

“I don’t want to talk right now,” he tersely replies.

She shrugs and continues to lead the way east. “Well, my offer still stands. But the longer you wait, the harder it’ll be for you to ask them.”

He grits his teeth together then surges forward, outwalking her. It rubs him the wrong way that she has managed to understand him while he is now barely able to figure her out. Since she has used her Force to sense that stormtrooper’s emotions and intentions, then maybe that is how she has been able to grasp what _he_ is thinking and feeling.

With this new factor in mind, he leads the way back to his ship. A mechanical buzzing reaches his ears, and he immediately stops.

“Do you hear that too?” Talia asks behind him.

“It’s an engine,” he realizes aloud, the wheels in his brain beginning to turn.

“That means we haven’t taken care of all of them,” she quickly remarks before running past him.

His cloak flaps behind him as he follows her. Their boots stomp into the snow, and the engines grow louder the closer they get. It is then that he realizes it is the transport ship that the stormtroopers had arrived in. Of course! The pilots and at least one gunman _would_ stay behind to protect the Imps’ way out of here. How could he have forgotten?

Looking in front of him, at Talia, he thinks, _Yeah, that’s how._

In half a minute they approach the clearing that the transport ship had made. A handful of fire patches are still lit, and charcoal smoke is dissipating in the air. The vessel is hovering a few feet off the ground and seems to be ready to take off. He finds cover behind a tree while Talia does the same about ten feet from his position. As he yanks out his blaster pistol, ready to move in and attack, he feels a cold hand tap his elbow. He turns and finds Talia sharing his tree.

_How’d she get here so fast?_

“How do you want to handle this?” she asks him, her voice loud enough to be heard over the roaring engines.

He glances at her lightsaber. “You’re the one with a glowing sword! _You_ do something!”

After squinting her eyes at him, she looks at the hovering transport and nods. “Okay, I’ve got an idea. I just wanted to consult you.” She points to his pistol. “Keep them busy for me!” With that, she darts away from him, running north through the dense forest.

Steeling himself, he takes in a deep breath. _I hate being bait,_ he inwardly complains before leaving his cover.

Din jogs out of the forest and into the clearing, his pistol in hand. The orange dawn illuminates his surroundings as he raises his gun and fires at the transport. His feet keep him moving while his index finger squeezes the trigger at consecutive intervals like a rapid heartbeat. When the ship starts firing back, he leaps away, cursing himself for leaving his jet-pack on the _Crest_.

The red laser shots whiz past him, melting snow and severing tree branches around them. Din races out of range and continues pestering the transport with more firepower. The snow-covered ground slows his movements, making his legs strain harder than normal. Sweat begins to dampen his tunic, and the ship’s artificial wind blows across the clearing, sending a chill down his spine.

As the transport hovers closer to him, he quickly walks backwards. He then spies Talia emerging from the forest. She runs towards the ship’s rear and jumps impossibly high. Flying like a bird, she retrieves her lightsaber hilt from her belt and summons her purple blade. Despite the noise of the ship’s engines and his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, he can still hear her weapon hum with life.

By the time Talia has landed on top of the ship, Din has veered to his right, dodging the continuous stream of firepower. He can feel melting snow splash on him from the laser shots, and he realizes they are getting too close for comfort.

A flash of purple catches his eye. He sees Talia running towards the back thrusters of the transport. With her glowing blade, she slices at them, crippling the ship. It begins to spin out of control and sail towards the East. Thankfully, the pilot and gunner have ceased shooting at Din, but just because they are occupied does not mean he has to stop. So, he continues to unleash a steady stream of blaster fire at the smoking vessel.

The ship swerves more to the East, crashing into the pines and sending snow everywhere. Meanwhile, he notices Talia hanging onto the transport for dear life. She is trying to shield herself from the tree branches as the pilot grapples with the controls. The ship flies over Din, and he runs after it. He can hear its engines shutter. The pilot seems to have taken some kind of command of the vessel because it lifts into the air and flies above the treetops. However, he watches Talia use her lightsaber to stab the ship, and wherever she pierced it, it is enough to initiate a worrisome explosion.

After running for who knows how long, Din’s lungs are growing tighter, but he presses forward. The transport falls from the golden sky, spinning out of control. It tears through pine tree after pine tree for at least half a mile. His hand is still clutching his blaster as he follows the burning ship’s trail of fire and mayhem. He is able to keep track of Talia by the purple blade glowing amidst the smoke and snow-covered branches. Yet, when it suddenly disappears, he scolds himself for feeling concerned for her. His worry only heightens the instant the ship crashes into the snow, taking down even more pines with it.

The ground shudders at the uncontrolled landing. Din slows down to a halt, his eyes taking in the scene of fire, melted snow, twisted metal, splintered trees, and gray smoke. Before the ship can even heave or groan from its crash, he spies a petite figure soaring in the air.

_Talia._

He watches as she does a single flip before rolling onto the ground, completing two forward somersaults. Her landing is soft, almost graceful, and he notes that her gray outer tunic is getting covered in snow and pine needles. For the life of him, he cannot help but be amazed by what she did. When she rises to her feet, she shakes off the muck from her clothes before it can melt and dampen the material. Behind her, the ship bursts into a roaring fire and explodes.

A heartbeat passes. He can hear her regulate her breathing, and he forces himself to stop staring at her. “You made a mess,” he gruffly remarks as he brushes past her. He needs to get to his ship, which—according to his calculations—should be less than a mile away from them.

“Wasn’t trying to,” she replies, still sounding out of breath.

“I couldn’t tell,” he mutters as he leads them northeast.

They skirt around the blazing crash site. For a moment, he thinks about checking for survivors onboard, but he figures no one inside could possibly be alive after that ordeal.

In the following twenty minutes, silence engulfs the space between him and Talia. He has too much to think about this early morning to engage in another conversation with her. Besides, his brain keeps focusing on the baby. He wonders if the little one has woken from his nap. Does that tin-can of a droid know what kind of food to give him? What happens if the baby starts crying when he realizes that R6 is the only one there? Din quickens his pace. This is the first time that the little womp-rat is alone without any kind of adult supervision.

When his surroundings tell him that he should be closer to his ship, Din’s speed-walking transitions into a steady jog. Above the sound of his and Talia’s boots crunching into the snow, he can barely hear the creek that the _Crest_ is parked next to. It is gurgling with less enthusiasm than before.

He finally reaches the clearing where he left his ship and groans at the sight that greets him. An old pine tree has fallen atop the _Crest_. Its long trunk is heavily leaning on the battered vessel so much that the latter is titling towards the creek. As Din surveys the scene, he perceives that the tree looks as if it has been rotting away near its base for years. And of all times for it to fall, it had to be now. This is probably one of the unluckiest days of his life.

“Great,” he mumbles, placing his hands on his waist.

“Oh. This is unfortunate,” Talia comments beside him.

_I didn’t ask you._

Sucking in a sharp breath, he states, “I’m going to have to set small charges along the—”

“No need,” Talia interrupts, waving a hand at him. She steps forward.

He cocks an eyebrow at her. “Why? Going to use this Force of yours?” he practically mocks.

“I can, yes,” she answers, looking at him over her shoulder.

When he moves closer to her, she lifts up her left hand and stares at the frustrating scene before them. Her black sleeves are still damp from her tumble in the snow, yet she does not appear to be shaking from the cold.

“Nothing’s happening,” he observes aloud.

“That’s because I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I would like to center myself first.”

 _Is that another definition for needing to gather your bearings?_ he silently wonders to himself, but he refrains from asking.

Instead, he questions, “How long is that going to take?”

Talia glances at him, her hand still stretched out before her. In a patient tone, one that reminds him of a teacher correcting a student, she replies, “A while—if you keep on distracting me.”

“I’m in a hurry,” he defends.

“I know. Patience,” she gently tells him before looking ahead of her.

“Fine,” he mutters. While he crosses his arms and waits, he cannot stop himself from rolling his eyes. He can feel his muscles tense up from lack of activity.

The seconds tick by before he sees the rotting tree begin to tremble. Its dead branches shake as if disturbed from a harsh wind. Something stirs in the air, something surreal. Quickly, he glances at Talia. He notices that both of her hands are stretched out in front of her. She then closes her eyes, and he is about to ask her why. Does she not need to see where she is going to put the tree? But he holds his tongue because he remembers that the kid had closed his eyes while picking up the Mudhorn back on Arvala-7. He does not understand why, but since it had worked for his adoptive son, he figures it can do the same with Talia.

He sees the tree lifting off the ship, and he can hear the latter groan in relief. However, the _Crest_ is now about to fall onto its side. In response, Talia’s right hand tilts to the side as well, as if catching his ship with her Force. She straightens out her hand, and the _Crest_ mirrors her movement. In his peripheral vision, Din realizes that Talia’s eyes are open again, and they are concentrated intently on what she is doing. The air grows even thicker, heavier, around them.

It seems to him that Talia’s left hand is focusing on raising the tree higher from his ship. Her fingers shudder a little as if they are burdened by the weight. When her right hand settles the _Crest_ onto its landing gear, Talia then uses it to help her continue to lift up the old tree. The rotting wood hovers above the ship, and Din finds himself holding his breath, afraid that the smallest of sounds will disturb Talia’s concentration and cause her to drop the tree back onto the _Crest_.

“I’ve got it, Din,” she whispers to him, her voice reassuring. “It’s not going to fall. I won’t let it.”

“I’m not worried,” he claims as he drops his arms to his sides.

“Your feelings tell me otherwise.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be distracted,” he reminds her. Though her hold on the tree is steady, he braces himself to watch it crash onto his ship.

“I can be now,” she tells him before taking a few steps forward.

Her movements push the rotting pine back. It follows her command and is no longer suspended above the _Crest_. Din quietly releases his breath as he watches Talia lower her hands inch by inch. Much to his relief, the tree begins to drop to the ground. It soon settles on the snow, its long trunk forming a bridge from one side of the creek to the other. The earth does not even tremble as it sits where Talia has placed the old pine.

Too amazed by what he had seen, Din hardly notices Talia drop her hands. What he had just witnessed was indeed a remarkable sight to behold— _that_ , he has to admit. And here he thought the kid picking up a huge Mudhorn was impossible. Talia had moved an entire pine tree while up-righting the _Crest_ at the same time! It blows his mind when he thinks that his adoptive son can do something like this someday.

 _But he will not be able to, if you do not allow her to continue to teach the foundling,_ his Armorer’s voice tells him.

Not liking where this train of thought is going, he shakes his head. He marches past Talia and says, “Not bad . . . for an inanimate object.” That is the closest to a ‘thank you’ he can manage right now.

He presses a button on his gauntlet that orders his ship to open up its side-door. As he ascends the ramp, he can hear Talia trailing close behind him. Once he is inside, he notes that the air in the _Crest_ is cold and smells of wood shavings. He walks over to the cockpit’s ladder. While he climbs up, he sees Talia close the side-hatch for him.

When he reaches his cockpit, he quickly slides into the pilot’s chair. His gloved fingers fly across the control panel, and he turns on his engines. As the ship warms up, he activates his computer. He suddenly feels Talia standing behind him. It is almost unnerving that he had not heard her climb the ladder. She has always been quiet, but now? Her lightness of foot is a little discomforting.

“Will R6 use the same frequency when he contacted us last time?” he asks.

“Yes. There’s no need for him to change it.”

“Okay, send him a message,” he tells her in a professional tone.

“I think we should get out of here first,” Talia advises, which causes him to scowl behind his helmet. He hates that she is right. He had thought a trek through the forest would have been enough time for him to gather his bearings again. How is it that he still does not have a clear head on his shoulders?

Without another word, he focuses on getting them into space. Talia, he observes, does not even move to sit down and buckle up as he flies the _Crest_ above Galidraan’s mountains and forests. She simply stands behind him, gripping his chair with perfect balance.

 _Must be her Force,_ he reasons to himself. _Stars! She really needs to tell me what else it can let the kid do._

It is only after he eases the ship into hyperspace does he glance at her, waiting for her to hold up her end of their truce. Talia nods at him and pulls out her Imagecaster from her trousers’ pocket. She then presses a small button on its side.

“Okay, I’m connected to the _Crest_ ,” she informs him. “Hail my ship, please?”

With a flick of his wrist, he does as she asks, but nothing happens. There is no response, just a steady flow of static.

“R6? This is Talia,” he hears her say. “Where are you?”

Again, nothing but garbled noise.

“That droid better not be messing around,” he warns, swiveling his chair so he can send her a cold glare.

He finds Talia running her teeth over her lower lip. “He must be taking precautions. I’m going to have to record a message for him.” She straightens her stance and holds her Imagecaster in front of her. “R6-D12, this is Talia. Mando and I have escaped Galidraan, but I don’t know where you’ve gone. Contact me ASAP. We need to know Vandar’s all right. And we have to arrange for a safe rendezvous, okay? Talia, out.”

After she presses a button on the communicator’s side, she nods at him again. He spins his chair around and sends her transmission to her ship’s frequency. That astromech better be in the _Alabaster Star_ ’s cockpit. If not . . .

 _Great,_ he thinks. _I’m going to be stuck here with her. And with nothing to do._

The situation irritates him, and before he can stop himself, he says, “I’ll blast him to smithereens if anything happens to my kid.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” his companion remarks.

Glancing behind him, he answers, “He’s your droid. Do you have any idea where he’d take them?”

She shakes her head, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. “Not really. But he may take the Triellus Trade Route. We used that to get to Nar Shadaa, so he might return to that familiar route as an escape plan.”

With a curt nod, he sets coordinates for that specific run. He figures they will be able to catch up with their respective companions in the next hour—if Talia’s hunch pays off. His eyes scan over his computer panel, searching for any reports of damages that the fallen tree might have inflicted on the _Crest_.

“I guess I’ll leave you to it then,” he hears Talia say after a couple of minutes.

The sound of her retreating footsteps is a welcoming one. After giving her enough time to climb down the ladder to the main compartment, Din finally allows himself to relax. He slumps back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling. The silence in the cockpit feels like a balm to his soul.

He closes his eyes, trying to escape the goings-on of the past few hours. But doing this only conjures up memories of Talia’s purple lightsaber dancing in the fog. He can hear it hissing with every move she makes, can still see the stormtroopers surrounding him, can smell the bitter scent of copper mixing with pine.

Not wanting to re-live the battle that they had overcome together, not now, Din snaps his eyes open again. He sighs.

_What am I going to do with her?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. I didn't get to finish this chapter 'till Friday, and I wasn't able to edit it with my Star Wars consultant (aka my sister) until early Saturday evening. So, I figured that I'd save this for Sunday. :)


	23. The Force Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section of this chapter was hard to write. I think you'll all see why...

Chapter XXIII: The Force Revealed

The Force floats around her like a soothing melody, engulfing her still body as a blanket would. As usual, it gives life to her soul every time she meditates and empties her mind. Sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, Talia takes in a deep breath and releases it in a soft hum. Her tune is slow, repetitive, yet comforting. The refreshing song of the Force accompanies her humming, and together, they create a contemplative harmony that helps her clear her busy thoughts. With closed eyes, she allows the Force to whisk away the maelstrom of emotions pulsing from the cockpit. The purring engines of the _Crest_ provide a steady beat for her humming, and Talia subtly nods her head at its brisk tempo.

Darkness behind her eyes is soon replaced by an image of little Vandar. His green, wrinkly skin and pointy ears had captured her heart the moment she first laid eyes on him. Seeing him on Cholganna felt as if she had been privileged with a glimpse of dear Master Yoda. But Vandar is all youth and innocence, she reminds herself. When she had last seen the baby two weeks ago, he was confused as to why she was leaving, and she felt his fear grow with each step she had taken away from him.

As she heightens the pitch of her humming, she uses the Force to reach out to her infant Padawan. The corner of her lips tug into a smile at the thought. Vandar, _her_ Apprentice? The concept is still so new to her, and it leads self-doubt and a sense of unworthiness to the forefront of her mind. Before she can silence them, a question that has plagued her since Onderon visits her again: _‘Who am I to train another?’_

The simple query makes her humming falter. Her back stiffens, and she presses her hands harder into her knees. Without the Jedi Order, without her master, she will remain a Padawan for the rest of her life. The braids that she wears are a testimony to this. No matter how many holocrons she manages to acquire or how many voices are added to the Force’s soft chorale, instructing her in its ways, her training will not be complete. And she will never be granted the rank of Jedi Knight. Who is she, an orphaned Apprentice, to train a child whom she senses will be as powerful as Master Yoda?

In the midst of her uncertainty, a familiar presence joins the Force’s symphony. Like a shadow of authority, it adds confidence to her meditation, quietening her doubts. Talia holds her breath and strains her ears past the continuous beat of the engines. The presence reminds her of years forever gone, of the one person who understood her the most. But she dares not call out to him, imagining that even the smallest sound from her might chase him away.

 _“You are too old to be a Padawan yourself, Talia,”_ a male voice remarks clearly as if its owner was standing in front of her. _“You have endured many trials worthy to be a Knight by now.”_

“M-master?” she whispers, sucking in a sharp breath. Her eyes suddenly feel watery. “Is that really you?”

 _“I could feel your pain echoing across the cosmos, young one,”_ he replies, answering her question in his evasive custom.

Master Zebedee Asher’s normally baritone voice sounds lighter than she remembers. But she can detect a hint of grittiness in his words—it was a vocal trait of his that came out stronger when he ordered their Clones during combat or when he instructed her in the Ataru lightsaber form. Oh, how she has missed hearing his voice! It has been years since he has last spoken to her through the Force.

In her mind’s eye, Talia pictures him. His rebellious streak enhances his triangle-shaped face, making his sharp jawline and pointy chin appear to be as tough as granite. But his brown beard, peppered with gray, softens his looks and transforms him into a wise, battle-worn General in the Grand Army of the Republic. She can see his wide forehead creased, like whenever Captain Shane reported an unwelcomed development in their latest strategy. His fair skin, lightly tanned by Ryloth’s Jixuan Desert, is wrinkled around his cheeks. Even though her master entered the war at the age of fifty, he sometimes appeared to be a decade younger, a factor that had fooled their ARC troopers when they first met them. They believed he was too inexperienced to lead them into battle, yet Zeb proved them wrong with his lightsaber skills and his shrewd tactical mind. She remembers his brown hair, long on top, being combed back and enhancing his wise eyes. Calculation and recklessness would swirl in his walnut-colored orbs, but Talia is warmed with the memory that they grew playful and loving whenever he looked at her.

 _“Focus on the present,”_ she hears him prompt, his voice laced with a hint of sternness.

“Yes, Master,” she automatically replies.

Glad to be in her teacher’s presence again, Talia continues to hum. Her throat feels tight with longing, but she presses forward in her tune. The Force touches her mind, showing her a glimpse of Vandar. She uses it to reach out to the little one, her senses brushing against his peaceful aura. Their bond, though new, becomes stronger the more she concentrates on him, and she is relieved to know that Vandar is sleeping right now.

 _“He will be a gift to the next generation of Jedi,”_ Master Zeb shares with her.

“Where did he come from?” she asks, though she does not know why she bothers. Ever since her master had become one with the Force, he has avoided answering her questions directly. It is a different trait for the straightforward man who had once trained her.

 _“Finding out is your next mission,”_ he replies. _“With Din Djarin.”_

At the mention of the baby’s adoptive father, Talia winces. His fuming tone, his hurtful words, his tense shoulders, his mistrust of her—all of it haunts her peaceful symphony and replaces it with a negative fanfare, loud and unrelenting. She hesitantly reaches out to her friend with the Force so she can assess his current state of mind. Her senses are not fully engaged before she finds herself in the midst of a strong gale of frustration and betrayal whirling around him like a hazardous blizzard from Illum.

Her throat feels tight again, and she cannot stop her shoulders from sagging with disappointment. “I’ve lost him, haven’t I?” she quietly asks, but her master does not respond. Even though she wants to back away from the crescendo of emotions snapping out of him like a freezing wind, the Mando’s concern for Vandar, his helplessness at the moment, his melancholy solitude all tear through her heart. She wants nothing more than to race up the ladder and sit with him like she used to, but she knows her presence will only make matters worse between them.

 _And it’s my fault,_ she thinks.

“He won’t forgive me,” she whispers. Something inside her chest squeezes at the dismal prospect.

 _“He will,”_ Master Zeb calmly tells her.

“Maybe not in this lifetime,” she sighs. “I can feel his anger from here. His resentment. And hurt. It’s chaotic and cold yet . . . orderly. Like a . . . like an icy tornado.”

_“Give him time. He will heal.”_

“I should have told him sooner,” Talia insists, shaking her head at the mess she made. “It shouldn’t have mattered that the moments never felt right. Maybe I missed something.”

 _“Trust in your feelings,”_ her mentor encourages. _“Listen to the Force.”_

Transported back to when he had first taught her to meditate, Talia simply nods and obeys. She empties herself of guilt, of her own pain, and of her friend’s prickly attitude. Humming once more, she regulates her breathing. The Force shows her the times when she did want to share her secret, but it enhances the feelings she experienced merely seconds before she followed through with her intention. She re-lives the sense of dread, of warning, that had frozen her blood and sealed her lips. Like then, she does not understand why she felt those things, but who is she to decipher the Force? It has always kept its ways a mystery.

 _“What is it telling you?”_ she hears her master ask, his patient voice sounding so distant right now.

“That what’s done is done,” she replies. “The song has already been sung. There’s no going back to re-play it.”

_“You must let go of your guilt. Move forward.”_

“Yes, Master,” she breathes before humming again.

Time becomes irrelevant as she basks in the warmth of the Force. Her humming grows louder, competing with the throbbing drum of the _Crest_ ’s engines. She can feel her master’s presence grow stronger as she reviews the small skirmish on Galidraan. The Force helped her evade Imperial captivity, but it informed her that her friend was in terrible danger. Her mind cleared like a blank sheet of music, and before she knew it, she retrieved her lightsaber from its secure box and donned her hood like the Jedi of old. Using the fog as a cloak, she had followed the sound of blaster fire and the uncertainty pulsing from her friend.

 _“You kept your mind clear during the battle,”_ Master Zeb tells her, and she feels her heart expand at the pride in his baritone voice. _“The Force flowed through you like a melody.”_

She smiles at his word choice. Ever since she had confided to him that the Force spoke to her in a song-like way, he used musical terms while he taught her. It was something her mother did with her back on Onderon. While the simple concept had calmed down her own slight Force connection, it helped her daughter gain a better and surer understanding of the strong entity flowing within her. Talia was relieved that her master not only saw how beneficial her mother’s influence had been but also encouraged this perception. She had adored him for that. And she still does.

 _“However,”_ she hears him begin, and there is a hint of criticism in that one word, _“you allowed yourself to get lost in the moment. And you took a dangerous tone.”_

In an instant, she is reminded of the moment when she had used the Force to choke one of the stormtroopers. Instead of merely lifting him up in the air, she permitted her bitterness towards him and what he stood for to cloud her judgment. Her concentration on the task at hand had been broken as she recalled the atrocities that troopers like him had done for the Empire.

“I know, Master,” she softly confesses. “I regretted it immediately. I realized that I needed to turn from that tone before I became immersed in it. So, I silenced his life’s song before I got carried away.”

 _“There is no Light without the Dark,”_ he quotes from the Gray Jedi Code. _“Be mindful of that. And of the temptations.”_

“I am.”

 _“But_ to feel _powerful is not wrong, young one. To allow that sensation to blind you, to become arrogant because of it, to behave indifferently to those around you,”_ he lists, and she can imagine him using his fingers while he names each concern. _“These siren songs are of the Dark Side. Beware.”_

“I will do better, Master.”

 _“I know you will.”_ There is a smile in his voice, and her closed eyes feel watery again. _“I must leave you soon.”_

Her heart drops at the announcement. “Wait,” she whispers. “I . . . I want to say . . . t-thank you, Master. For coming to me. After today . . . I really needed this. It’s been so long since we’ve spoken. Years even. I . . . well . . .” She hesitates and tries not to sound like a little girl. “I thought I disappointed you.”

 _“Have confidence in your growth,”_ he encourages. _“You do not need me as much as you think.”_

The nudge to stretch her abilities and go solo feels more like a reprimand, but she knows that Zeb means well.

“It’s just,” she sighs, her throat becoming tight. “I miss you, Master. _So much_.” And his holocron has never been enough to console her, only his Force-presence.

_“If you let go of your grief, I would visit you more often. A Jedi must accept the reality that they live in and continue on with their lives.”_

“I know,” she reluctantly answers. This is not a foreign doctrine to her. It is simply one that she has struggled with most of her life.

 _“Yet you are still mourning me,”_ Zeb points out, even though she does not need any reminding. _“As well as your previous losses. The past’s hold on you will keep you prisoner unless you let go.”_

“The past is a life lesson,” she replies, quoting him from one of his many training sessions. “Not a life sentence.”

_“Indeed.”_

“Gone but not forgotten.”

 _“A difficult balance to achieve,”_ Zeb comments, his voice becoming distant with each word he utters. _“But not impossible.”_

“Through balance, there is the Force,” she cites from the Gray Code again.

_“And the Force will set you free . . . Talia.”_

Like an instrument in decrescendo, his presence softly retreats from the gentle harmony of the Force. Her spirits lower a little when she can longer feel his aura, but she takes his lesson to heart and decides not to dwell on his absence.

Focusing on the Force so she can find comfort and peace, she resumes her humming. She has droned this tune since her mother taught it to her. Not once has she grown tired of its soothing, repetitive melody. The soft notes combined with the gentle vibration in her throat have helped calm both her mind and emotions, allowing her to meditate on whatever the Force brings to her attention.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Meanwhile . . ._

He is sitting in his pilot’s chair, helmet off, face buried in his crossed arms. Slouched forward on his console, he can feel the cold Beskar of his gauntlets pressing up against his forehead. His mind is too busy to fall asleep, and he feels a nervous tingling sensation running across his skin. He keeps thinking about what happened on Galidraan with Talia. If he was not a Mandalorian, he would be afraid of her and her Force ability. But he is one, and to show fear is to show weakness. He has been strong his entire life; he has looked Death in the eye more times than he can count. He will _not_ let her powers, or her lightsaber, scare him even the slightest.

His Armorer called Jedi sorcerers, enemies. Though a small part of him still believes that Talia is neither of those things, he cannot ignore the fact that she misled him since day one. He has seen glimpses of what her gift can do, and he wants to avoid a physical confrontation with her if he can. But if push comes to shove and if he is forced into it, then he needs to know how to bring her down. These Jedi were killed thirty years ago by non-Force individuals, so the task to subdue her—maybe not to terminate—should not be too difficult, right? He just needs to know more about her people and their Order.

Since he doubts he will be getting any kind of rest with her onboard, he tears his face away from his crossed arms and sits up straight. He puts his helmet back on, his mind turning. His fingers fly across his computer, and he searches for information on Jedi. To defeat an opponent, one must know them—a lesson his buir had taught him.

Ten minutes pass, and he gives up. The Empire did a good job of re-writing the history books, and the New Republic has other priorities right now than to focus on restoring the government archives about the Jedi. So, he focuses on why Galidraan had sounded very familiar to him. He is surprised the most recent historical and pre-Empire incident that happened on the planet not only had to do with the Jedi but also with Mandalorians. Din feels his gut twist as he scans through the account from Galidraan’s archives.

Approximately fifty-four years ago, a great battle had occurred on the mountainous planet. The outcome was the termination of a rival faction of Death Watch’s. The group had called themselves True Mandalorians, and they had warred with the Watch for years. Din cannot remember how his adoptive family eliminated this sect or even why they wanted to in the first place. To him, the skirmish had been an old story, one of the first that he heard when he was rescued by the Watch as a boy. He is even unable to recall what the True Mandos had stood for and why they were rivals to the people that saved him. So, he briefly pauses on his research about the Battle of Galidraan and focuses on learning about these True Mandalorians.

He discovers that they were a group of supercommandos that rallied behind a man named Jaster Mereel who tried to reform their culture’s more unrestrained members by outlining a new teaching for Mandos to abide by. Mereel authored a _Supercommando Codex_ that drew up an honorable conduct for their Creed through a modernization of the ancient Canons of Honor and an elaboration on the _Resol’nare_ *. From a brief summary of this _Codex_ , it seemed Mereel preached that any Mandalorians who followed his doctrine and wished to fight would no longer be permitted to behave as raiders and brigands. Instead, they were to uphold themselves as highly-paid soldiers who fought and treated others with dignity and honor.

 _(_ * _pronounced: RAY-sol NAH-ray; significance: Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life)_

Din finds it interesting that Mereel did not discourage his supporters from pursuing a mercenary lifestyle. In fact, the other man saw an honest nobility in this line of work because it had already been imbedded in the Mando culture for centuries. The longer Din peruses Mereel’s doctrines and his faction’s history, the more he realizes that several beliefs from the True Mandos were the same ones that his buir had instilled in him since childhood. He recognizes some things such as upholding honor and rejecting uncalled for vicious behavior. But his buir was a part of Death Watch, the True Mandos’ sworn and most hated enemy. Because of their rivalry, they had created the Mandalorian Civil War that tore their culture apart. Did she know that what she was trying to teach him would be considered treachery in the Watch’s eyes? Could she have been a True Mando sympathizer?

Frustrated that today is proving to be a day when he questions everything and everyone around him, Din shakes his head and closes the files on the group. Those True Mandos did not seem too bad to him, and he finds himself wondering if he knows Death Watch as well as he should. He has half a mind not to research the sect, yet curiosity seizes him.

Before he knows it, he has already pulled up a file on the group that rescued him from the droid army all those years ago, and he cannot stop his eyes from perusing the report.

Death Watch was led by a soldier named Tor Vizsla who wanted Mandos to return to the ways of their ancient ancestors as raiders, galactic crusaders, and even savages. Their primary goal was to wage another war of conquest across the galaxy. It appeared that Vizsla attracted fierce warriors who were skilled but ill-disciplined, and there were rumors of constant in-house fighting under Vizsla’s leadership. To most, members of the Watch were viewed as hooligans and disobedient ruffians who seemed more interested in theft and other crimes rather than their supposed goals of re-establishing a Mandalorian empire. Members of their Creed considered a so-called solider from Death Watch to be a _dar’manda_ ¹ because he or she would outright refuse to follow the _Resol’nare_ ², and that judgment made Din’s stomach drop.

 _(_ ¹ _pronounced: dar-MAHN-da; significance: a state of not being Mandalorian—not an outsider but one who has lost his heritage, thus his identity and his soul—which is regarded with absolute dread by most traditionally-minded Mandos)_

 _(_ ² _pronounced: RAY-sol NAH-ray)_

Discouraged and confused, he wraps up his reading about the Watch. Then, for the next several minutes, he looks at the swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace and stares at its endless depths. His brain tells him that this version of Death Watch was not the group he had grown up with and trained under. On the other hand, the various accounts from multiple sources are hard to ignore. His people, his Tribe, his adoptive mother—they were not set on conquering the galaxy. Yes, they ached for battle and for a chance to revel in a fight. What Mandalorian does not want that? But to dominate other worlds and other people? He finds himself shaking his head. No, they did _not_ teach him and the foundlings that. Nor did they even mention this objective while he lived with them. They taught him to be a _verd_ ¹, not a _ge’hutuun_ ². And they implanted in him survival, independence, loyalty to its members, honor, and tradition.

 _(_ ¹ _pronounced: vaird; translation: “soldier / warrior”)_

 _(_ ² _pronounced:_ _ge-hoo-TOON; meaning: (1) bandit, villain, petty thief, abusive, and (2) can also mean a serious criminal you have no respect for)_

 _What kind of people raised me?_ he asks himself before returning to his research on the Battle of Galidraan.

It seemed that the True Mandos’ leader, Mand’alor Jango Fett, had tracked down the Watch and Vizsla to Galidraan. After discovering that the Governor of the planet was giving asylum to his enemies, Fett made a deal with him: he and his Mandos would suppress a group of local rebels plaguing the Governor in exchange for the Watch’s location. Fett kept his end of their bargain, and before he could collect on his reward, he was attacked by Vizsla and the Watch—who were being financially supported by the Governor.

Repulsed and angered, Din continues to read, unable to stop himself despite the warning his gut sends him.

By sheer luck, or Fate, the Mand’alor escaped and retreated to his warriors’ position. However, they were soon confronted by a large squad of Jedi who had been informed that Mandos were slaughtering civilians. The Jedi, believing their view on the situation was absolute, ordered Fett and his group to surrender. Disgusted by the implied accusation, Fett issued an attack, and Din curses the Mand’alor’s pride and stubbornness.

Over three hundred Mandos were slaughtered that day. Of the twenty Jedi who participated in the battle, eleven remained. Fett and another member of his faction survived only to be handed over to the Galidraanian governor and then sold into slavery. The Jedi returned to their Order, Death Watch stirred up unrest across their culture’s planets, and the True Mandalorians were destroyed.

Din, ashamed of what the Watch had accomplished, swallows a bad taste in his mouth. It was beyond depressing to read how they removed their rivals from being a living, breathing, fighting faction. He blames the Watch for arranging the True Mandos’ extinction; however, he blames the Jedi even more for carrying out the sentence. No wonder his Armorer called that Force-wielding Order their enemies.

Unable to help himself, he thinks about the Jedi down in his cargo hold. _Her people_ were responsible for slaughtering over three hundred members of their Creed. True Mandos or Death Watch—it does not matter to him. How could she give up their culture for one that professed to be intermediaries? The Battle of Galidraan proved that the Jedi had the ability to be butchers. Some keepers of the peace they were.

 _Why’d Talia go to that planet?_ he asks himself. He remembers that both she and R6 said it was because of research, yet the droid mentioned something about a friend of her master’s. _Was that Jedi a part of the massacre? If that’s the case, why would she be interested in it?_ Despite her elimination of the stormtroopers, Talia does not strike him as someone who takes pleasure in death and destruction. Maybe her “research” has nothing to do with the battle on Galidraan.

 _There_ is _one way to find out,_ his Armorer’s voice prods him. _You must ask her, Din Djarin._

 _And why should I believe anything she tells me?_ he stubbornly throws back at the voice. But he is already headed for his cockpit’s ladder. _She’s a liar. Why should I trust her?_

 _You know why,_ the voice answers with an annoying patience. _She promised to be truthful. And she has already proven herself to be a woman of her word._

With a clenched jaw, he climbs down the ladder, his gray cloak fluttering behind him. The prospect of asking her questions means he will have to let go of some of his pride and stubbornness. Admitting ignorance is not wise in combat or in the company of strangers. But he has to utilize the vow she swore to him—it would be unwise not to. So, he decides to be open-minded, but that does not mean he will blindly accept everything she tells him. After all, he is _not_ an _utreekov_ *.

 _(_ * _pronounced: oo-TREE-kov; translation: “fool” / “idiot”; literally: “empty-head”)_

Reaching the heart of his ship, he wonders what Talia has been doing down here the past two hours, alone. And in the dark, too. He glances around a sea of blackness and hears a soft humming floating on the cold air. A heartbeat passes before he recognizes it as the meditative-like tune that she hums to the baby. Why is she doing that since the little one is not here right now? He thought it was just a lullaby.

Knowing where the switch is to turn on the main light, he extends a hand in that direction and flips it. The yellow light, stationed in the middle of the ceiling, shines directly on Talia. She is in the center of the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing the cockpit ladder as if she has been waiting for him all this time. Her dark hair is hanging over her shoulders, and he can see her thin braid snaking its way through her wavy locks. Her gray outer tunic looks dry, and he can see her dull silver and gold lightsaber hilt glistening in the light.

Something catches his eye. When he focuses on it, it takes him a couple of moments for his brain to register that there are some things floating in the air around Talia. He blinks, thinking that the shadows must be playing tricks on him, but the items are still there, drifting in the darkness. He identifies a rag, a wrench, and a few small boxes. They hover above the ground as if they are stuck in Talia’s orbit. He almost wonders if the gravity function in his ship has been deactivated, but reason tosses that idea aside.

What is she doing? Training with her Force? Obviously, she is using her gift to lift these things up in the air. But why is she doing that now? Is she bored?

Her humming continues, and her eyes are still closed. She did not even flinch when he turned on the light. Din studies her with new perception, wondering if knowing her secret somehow affected her appearance. The warm glow from the light softens her diamond-shaped face. Her tanned skin is not as pale as it seemed when being surrounded by Galidraan’s white snow. Talia actually looks . . . peaceful, and her relaxed expression almost mirrors that of when she sleeps. He notices that her head is moving, almost nodding. It appears that she is doing it to maintain a steady beat with her muffled tune.

Not wanting to scare her because all he needs is for her to be startled enough to whip out her lightsaber, he clears his throat. He crosses his arms in front of him when she continues to hum and keep her eyes closed. However, the items floating around her slowly drop to the floor. He watches them settle on crates and other places, and he figures Talia must have returned them to their original spots.

Once his things are back in their designated areas, Talia finishes her humming, ending the lullaby as if she had intended to wrap it up the moment he decided to join her. He finds himself feeling calmer than before he climbed down from his cockpit.

“Any word from R6?” she softly asks, her eyes still closed.

“No.” Two heartbeats pass, and when he realizes that she has no intention of stopping from sitting there all cross-legged and calm, he bluntly asks her, “What are you doing?”

“Meditating.”

 _Yeah, well. You’re not the only one,_ he silently remarks.

“On what?”

“On anything and everything,” she answers, her elegant accent as gentle as snowflakes.

“Is it a Force thing?”

“For me it is.”

Her gift still puzzles him. And so does her Jedi connection. Not to mention her not-uncle-but-Master Zeb and her “research” on Galidraan. Why could she not still be the Talia that he has grown to rely on? True, her mysteriousness irritated him, but those moments look simple compared to now. He finds himself wishing that she just kept her secret to herself.

His gaze is drawn to her dark pink lips as they form a frown. “I can sense your confusion,” she murmurs, and he wonders how much of her Force heightens her instincts. “What’s on your mind?”

Knowing the time has come for him to dig for answers, he says in his bounty hunter voice, “A number of things.”

Though he sounded a little gruff, he made sure there was a hint of frustration in his tone. It earns him the response he was aiming for: Talia finally opens her eyes. Her dark irises soften with compassion as she tilts her head at him, waiting for him to continue. But he hardens himself against the sincerity in her gaze—he has things to get to the bottom of.

“I know what your Jedi did to the Mandalorians on Galidraan,” he accuses.

She quirks a brow at him. “You told me you’re from Death Watch. Why would you care about the True Mandos?”

_Ah, so she knows her history._

“It doesn’t matter,” he roughly answers. Dropping his arms to his sides, he takes a step forward and towers over her. “They’re from my Creed. And the Jedi killed three hundred of them. I just read about it. You said Jedi were peacekeepers.”

He watches her take in a deep breath, and her eyes are dimmed with sadness. “That wasn’t our finest moment.”

“I’ll say.”

“Jedi are not perfect.”

“But slaughtering hundreds?” he deadpans. “Was it just because of the bad blood between them?”

“No,” she firmly insists. “In your reading, did you also find out that the Jedi were deceived? That they were misled by the Galidraanian governor? He was giving Death Watch sanctuary, and they manipulated him.” Talia surveys him with a teacher-like gaze. “They convinced the Governor to contact the Jedi and to tell them that Mandalorians were on a killing spree on his planet. I’m sure you can see that a report like this wasn’t too hard for the Jedi to believe.”

“They should’ve checked their intel,” he argues bitterly.

“Yes. The Jedi were too trusting. But Mand’alor Fett should have put his people first before his arrogance.”

“He was a Mandalorian,” Din mutters. “Fighting, weapons, proving ourselves—it’s in us. It’s—”

“Our religion?” she finishes with a sad smile, reminding him of the first time he said that to her. “I know that, only too well. Too many things went wrong that day. Death Watch was blinded by their bloodlust and desire for revenge against the True Mandos. They were so desperate to get rid of them that they didn’t mind if the Jedi did their dirty work for them.”

He cannot ignore the sorrow in her voice, and he does not want to imagine how she must feel knowing that her people, the one she was born into and the one who raised her, had warred against each other for centuries. And he thought _he_ had a rough childhood.

“I wasn’t brought up like that,” he defends, turning away from her. He walks back to the ladder and leans on it.

The half-smile Talia gives him is almost undetectable, yet he is still able to catch a glimpse of it. “I know that. I’ve always known,” she says. “You have honor and a true Mandalorian heart.”

He is reminded of when she told him that weeks ago after completing the op with Ran and the other mercenaries. She said she had a good feeling about him when they met and had figured out early on that he had a strong, moral compass. After this morning, he now knows her Force had helped her size him up.

Not wanting to get entangled in their complicated past, he asks, “Why’d you go there? To Galidraan. What kind of research were you doing?”

“My master’s master was buried there,” she immediately replies. “He was a Twi’lek named _Koa-Li Serro_ *. Would you like to see him?”

 _(_ * _pronounced: KOH-ah Lee Sir-ro)_

He gives her a curt nod, to which she responds to by retrieving her Imagecaster from her trousers’ pocket. She presses a button on the device’s bronze rim, brings the Imagecaster to her lips, and whispers, “Serro, Koa-Li.” When she lowers her tech and turns her hand palm-up, she taps its chrome, grill-looking center with her thumb. In an instant, a hologram of a pale green Twi’lek appears like a ghost.

This Koa-Li looks like most from his species: humanoid in appearance with two, long head-tails draping behind them. His green skin enhances his golden eyes, and there are wrinkles on his cheeks. The hologram shows Koa-Li dressed in a thick, cream tunic with black trousers, knee-high boots, and a billowy robe. The robe is brown with wide sleeves and a hood hanging down his back. Wrapped around his waist is a belt that carries his own lightsaber, and Din wonders if his blade was purple like Talia’s.

“So, he died fighting Mandos,” he assumes aloud.

As Talia turns off her Imagecaster, she shakes her head. “No, he was injured there, severely. He was taken back to Coruscant, to our Jedi Temple, so he could heal. But while he was recuperating, he felt that something was wrong. He knew the battle shouldn’t have happened. So, he did his own investigating and meditated on it.” Talia’s fingers begin to play with her communicator. “When he found out everything, he was devastated. He was ashamed of the part he played. And of what the Jedi did. My master said he became so depressed that his body shut down on him. He felt the Order failed in bringing peace. And he was right.”

“What’d he do about it?” Din asks.

“He was dying,” she explains. “He couldn’t _do_ anything. In his last moments, he charged my master to bury him on Galidraan. He didn’t feel like he should be laid to rest at the Temple, not after what the Jedi did. He wanted to be buried with the people he should have saved—at least, that’s what Zeb told me.

“Koa-Li trusted my master to carry out his wishes because he wanted his personal holocron to be buried with him on Galidraan and not locked away in the Temple’s vaults.”

The way Talia had said ‘holocron,’ it is as if she expected him to know what it was. But he is puzzled by the mere mention of this item. So, before she can continue, Din asks, “What’s a holocron?”

She gives him a tiny yet patient smile. “A holocron is short for ‘holographic chronicle.’ It’s a device to store information on Force exercises or instruction manuals. Because it’s Force-sensitive, only those with the Force can open it. Inside is a gatekeeper. Or in laymen’s terms, an artificial personality that grants a Force-sensitive access to the stored information. Gatekeepers appear like holograms, and most of them look like their holocron’s creator.”

“So, Koa-Li’s holocron has Koa-Li as its gatekeeper?” he double-checks. After he receives nod in confirmation, he says more than asks, “And you went to Galidraan to exhume Koa-Li and take his holocron.”

“No, I got it years ago when I was fourteen. Master Zeb told me where it was,” she admits. “I’ve been able to learn more about the Force and other things because of it. Koa-Li’s teachings are vast. He was a great master in my Order.”

“Then why’d you go back to Galidraan?”

“Because I always suspected Zeb might’ve buried more than just his master’s holocron. But I wasn’t strong enough in the Force at the time to detect anything else there. I was near the Thanium Sector, so I went back to make sure. I wanted to know if there were other things or Jedi relics that could help me train the baby.”

“And?”

“And I found nothing.”

He subtly nods his head. There are some pieces that have fallen into place, yet he still finds holes in her story. “The battlefield wasn’t anywhere near your ship,” he points out. “What were you doing then?”

Shrugging her shoulders, she replies, “Meditating, going through lightsaber drills, sharpening my Force abilities. I wanted time away from distractions.”

It dawns on him that she must have been doing her fencing footwork before he found her campsite. That is the only explanation as to why the snow around her fire was disturbed and practically melted. From past experiences, he knows that she values her alone time—almost as much as he does. He then realizes that she must have done something like this back on Cholganna when she disappeared on him for several hours. And also on Onderon when she isolated herself in her room for nearly an entire day.

“And while I was meditating,” he hears her continue, “I felt a ripple in the Force. It was coming from Vandar. I sensed that he was in danger. And that he was worried for you. That’s why I contacted you. I knew something was wrong.”

“You were able to use the Force to feel all that?” he wonders aloud. “Even when we were Systems away from you?” After she nods, he demands, “How’s that possible?”

“The Force can do many things,” she answers, running a finger across her Imagecaster. “It connects us to everything around us. And since I’ve been training Vandar, a deep Force-bond has developed between us.”

Thinking that it is time to understand what the Force is, Din finally asks her about it. At first, Talia does not say anything. When she runs her teeth over her bottom lip, he waits, knowing that at least one thing about her has not changed: she is trying to find the right words to answer him.

“The Force,” she begins, stashing away her Imagecaster, “is an energy, a binding that connects together all living things, like people and animals and cells. It flows through everyone and everything like a river of life. I’ve even heard the Force being described as some kind of energy field.”

The concept sounds absurd to Din, yet he knows it must be true. He has seen proof of its existence with the baby and with Talia. But it is still hard for him to grasp the idea of this . . . entity that has, apparently, been around for who knows how long—and here he had lived most of his life completely unaware of it until now.

“Is there a scientific reason as to why this Force exists?” he asks, hoping a realistic explanation can make this more believable for him. “And do you know why you have it and I don’t?”

“They say that a person’s Force-sensitivity is associated with—most of the time—a high count of internal microorganisms called midi-chlorians.”

“And what are these mini-cloreans?” he presses, knowing he butchered its pronunciation.

Talia runs a hand through her dark hair and releases a long breath. “Midi-chlorians, I’ve been told, are intelligent life-forms that live in harmony with their hosts—living creatures. Everything has midi-chlorians. Usually, the higher the count of midi-chlorians in the blood, the greater the living being’s potential Force ability is. Some of the Jedi believed that midi-chlorians were actually created by the Force. To serve as a kind of link between it and other life. When a Force-sensitive clears their mind, they can hear the midi-chlorians tell them the will of the Force.” She pauses, and he cannot stop himself from looking at her as if she has lost her mind. “I know it sounds bizarre—”

“You’re telling me.”

“But the Force is a real thing, even if it’s a mystery. I’ve always thought it created the galaxy since it binds it together. Like I said before, it has a will of its own. And why do some people have it while others don’t?” She shakes her head. “I can’t answer that. That’s just how it is.”

“So, _you_ have a high count of midi-chlorians in you?” he questions, trying to understand all this. When Talia nods, he assumes, “And the Force uses this high count to help you do those . . . normally impossible things?”

“Yes. Force-sensitives have the ability to tap into the Force flowing around them. And in everyone and everything.”

There is so much for him to take in, but he has a strong feeling that Talia has only given him a _brief_ explanation of this Force. Probably so he will not be overwhelmed or confused more than he is right now. From what he has gathered, the concept seems simple yet complicated. To think that the Force runs through her veins, just like the baby—and whoever has a high count of these midi-chlorians.

 _When she meditates,_ he figures to himself, _she must be clearing her mind so she can listen to the Force_. But the thought sounds insane to him, and he wants to shake his head. _And the baby could do that one day, too. Since when did my life get so weird?_

“How high is the kid’s midi-chlorian count?” he asks. Since Talia has done several things behind his back with the little one, he would not put it past her if she already checked his blood.

“I don’t know,” she admits, surprising him. “I haven’t been able to test his blood. I didn’t think it important since I can sense the Force in him. And it’s strong.”

Din allows the new information to wash over him. Time drags by as he soaks it in, trying to understand that these facts—which are too detailed and complicated for Talia to have invented—are a part of the baby’s DNA, literally. And since the womp-rat is part of his Clan, Din realizes that _he_ needs to accept this Force, its powers, its will, those midi-chlorians. Ignoring any of it will be foolish.

“What else can you do with the Force? And the kid, too?” he asks after a couple of minutes.

“Almost anything,” Talia answers, her accent soft, matching the compassion in her eyes. “Which,” she adds, “can be a problem if he’s not properly trained.”

Din knows she is still hoping to continue to teach the baby. His brain wants to automatically say ‘no’; however, his gut tells him that he should not dismiss her offer. What does _he_ know of the Force? He had never heard of it until today. But he needs to know more—for the baby’s sake, if not for his own.

“He can pick up things with his mind . . . er . . .” He briefly closes his eyes, knowing he used the wrong lingo. “I mean, he can use the Force to do it.”

“That,” she nods. “And much more.”

And Din chooses that moment to go over the things he has seen both her and the baby do with their Force. He mentions he has witnessed beast-bonding, healing, pushing or pulling objects and people either back or towards them, impossible jumps, heightened senses, levitation, choking, safe landings, quick reflexes. As he reviews all of this, Talia nods in confirmation. He thinks the list is long, but the twinkle in her eye tells him that he has only scratched the surface.

“You Force-sensitives sound like gods,” he confesses, his mind spinning after remembering the amazing yet crazy things he has seen.

“We’re not. And we’re far from perfect. But I must warn you,” she says, her voice serious, “that to every good thing is an evil one.”

“That Dark Side you mentioned,” he reminds her.

“Yes. I believe the Force is a good entity. But people can use it for evil. My Jedi Order took in Force-sensitives so they can train and learn to follow the Light Side of the Force.

“People who use the Light devote themselves to the Force’s will. It leads us to be honest,” she shares, “self-sacrificing, compassionate, merciful, peaceful. Through the Force, Lightsiders can do good. We can heal others and be generous because of our powers.”

Din nods, understanding that everything Talia said about this benevolent side of the Force is how she has lived her life. But it sounds like a hard way to live. With all that power and skill, Force-sensitives can rule over regular people if they wanted to. Surely, the temptation to take matters into their own hands, just because they are able to, is something that these gifted individuals must wrestle with.

“So,” he figures aloud, “I’ll take it that this Dark Side is the complete opposite of the Light.”

“Yes. Darksiders, or Sith, are self-serving and yearn for more power. They allow their emotions and their passions to dominate them, to blind them. They are fueled with anger, hate, fear, aggression. They don’t value life. Their enemies are the Jedi,” she informs him. “The Dark Side corrupts people, telling them lies that their anger will make them more powerful and that compassion and mercy are weaknesses. The Empire was ruled by a Sith Lord: Emperor Palpatine.”

 _And he got rid of the Jedi,_ he realizes.

“Is it possible for a Lightsider to become a Sith?” he asks, his thoughts turning back to the baby and the Force-choke that Talia said was a glimpse of the Dark Side.

“Yes,” she quietly says. “The lure of the Dark Side will always be there. Once you’ve given your soul to it, there’s no coming back. I’ve walked the line too many times in my past. And I still struggle to stay away from it.”

“And the kid?” he hesitantly asks.

“Vandar is so young; he doesn’t know what the Light or Dark is. But he will when he’s older.” She moves her gaze to his left for a moment before having it focus on his visor again. “I was trying to show him the Jedi way,” she tells him. “And teach him the Light Side. Since you’re his father now, you may want him to stay away from all this, but he can’t. He _will_ have to choose for himself one day.”

“But you want him to be a Lightsider,” he muses.

“Don’t you?” she asks, cocking a dark brow at him. “After what I’ve told you about both sides, don’t you want him to be compassionate and good?”

“Of course, I do,” he defends. “I don’t want him to be an unchecked, killing machine. There’s no honor in that lifestyle. But,” he slowly wonders, “is there an in-between? Are there only two paths for him to take?”

Talia drops her eyes. After a few moments, she answers, her voice sounding uncertain for the first time since they started this conversation. “Yes. There _is_ a middle ground, but I think it’s risky.” She looks at him again. “My master was leaning towards that the older he got. I’ve explored it myself over the years, but it’s more complex. I’ll admit you have to be extremely disciplined. But I believe it’s too easy to stray to the Dark Side.”

“Your Jedi didn’t teach it,” he assumes.

“No. The Jedi have a Code. And such teachings of the Gray Side of the Force were forbidden.”

“Tell me about this Code.”

So, Talia does. Over the next hour, she explains that the Jedi believed in purging themselves from emotions. It seemed that too much love or fear or anger somehow can lead a Jedi to the Dark Side. As Talia delves deeper into this, Din senses that she does not entirely agree with the doctrine, especially the part about the Jedi not being allowed to have deep attachments to others. Her voice is clipped and very factual, and it sounds as if she is giving a report rather than sharing a principle that she believes in wholeheartedly.

“There is no emotion, there is peace,” she quotes the Jedi’s mantra. “There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force.”

Din paces the small confines of his ship—he has done so for the past several minutes. He nods, soaking in the mantra. It sounded cold to him. Even boring. He faces Talia and states, “You said the Jedi don’t believe in attachments. But you do.”

“And so did my master,” she confides. “We believe attachments shouldn’t be forbidden, just monitored. A trusted friend or two should help keep a Jedi accountable of the attachment so they don’t stray too far from the Light Side.”

He thinks about her marriage to Surjay and her close relationships with her family and friends. It dawns on him that Talia would have been excommunicated from her Order if it still existed.

What a hard life it sounds, to live as a Jedi, to distant one’s self from emotion but to be expected to help others and to be compassionate. And then, there were those Siths. Though Talia has not mentioned them for a while, he suspects the Darksiders would be consumed with only themselves—so much so that they would destroy anyone and everyone around them. But to him, both sides are too extreme. However, it seems that Talia has actually found that middle ground she claimed is too risky and complicated.

“Why do you follow the Jedi,” he asks, “when you don’t believe in what they teach? Even after they’ve been gone for years?”

“I believe in most of their teachings,” she admits.

“Like what?”

As he continues to pace, she lists off key elements of the Jedi Code. They taught that a Jedi should not act for personal power or wealth. Instead, they must seek knowledge and enlightenment and must train hard to improve themselves. When they do act, they should not do so out of hatred, anger, fear, or aggression; calmness of mind and peace with the Force must stem from every decision they make. Revenge, he learns, is forbidden. A Jedi needs to let go of the past and discipline themselves so they can move forward. Talia then names a long list of what a Jedi must conquer, such as arrogance, defeatism, overconfidence, materialism.

The Jedi had been the guardians of peace in the galaxy, especially in the day of the Republic. In order to accomplish this, they can use their powers to defend and protect people and all living creatures. They are forbidden to attack others, including their prisoners and unarmed opponents. Their Force connection should be applied to serving civilizations rather than ruling over them. And all of this should be done for the greater good of the galaxy.

“We are to respect life in any form,” she shares. “But we will fight if that is our only option.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her brushing her fingers over her lightsaber.

“Is that a Jedi’s weapon?” he asks, turning to her.

“It is. The lightsaber is the symbol of those belonging to the Jedi Order,” she explains. “It is their life. If a Jedi ignites his lightsaber, he must be ready to take a life—mentally and emotionally.”

“Can anyone fight with that?” he wonders, nodding at her weapon.

“Yes and no.”

Before he can ask her to explain that contradictory answer, Talia retrieves her lightsaber. He watches her grip the hilt with both hands. Then, she looks up at him and gestures before her. “Join me?” she petitions.

At first, he remains still, not sure what she is planning to do. But his curiosity once again gets the better of him, so he nods. Quietly, he walks over to her and lowers himself to the floor. There is about three feet separating them as he kneels in front of her. Talia, still cross-legged, sends him a grateful smile before she sets her lightsaber hilt on the ground, right in between them. The light above shines down on it, making the dull silver and gold metal look shinier than it really is.

Din glances at Talia, waiting for her to say something. Instead, she closes her eyes. Two seconds pass until her lightsaber is lifted from the ground. His gaze is lured to it as it floats between them. He watches it slowly turn in the air as if it weighs less than a feather. As he studies its grooves and switch and elegant design, he realizes that the hilt is not just one piece. He can identify at least two parts making up this cylinder device.

“A lightsaber can be used by a non-Force-sensitive,” she murmurs, her eyes still closed. “But to them, it is just a weapon. They are not connected to it like a Jedi is. And they will never be able to use it as well.”

“Why?” he asks, staring at the hilt. He figures it to be around nine to eleven inches in length.

A heartbeat passes, and then Talia lifts up her hands in front of her. The black sleeves of her tunic are long enough and designed to cover her hands like fingerless gloves. There is something mystical about the way she moves them, turning them as if she is untwisting an invisible object. Fascinated, he sees the lightsaber hilt unravel itself. He squints as she uses the Force to separate it into individual parts. About three large pieces float with numerous smaller ones. He feels his mouth open in amazement at how complicated the mechanics are of such a simple-looking yet powerful weapon.

Two glimmers catch his attention; they are coming from the center of the lightsaber. He leans in closer to the pieces and spies a couple of crystals. One is milky white while the other is a deep purple.

 _That’s why her blade’s that color,_ he realizes.

“A power cell, energy modulation circuits,” Talia lists off, “a stabilizing ring, a kyber-focusing crystal, an energy gate, a primary crystal, an inert power insulator, a crystal chamber—all of these components, and much more, make up a Jedi’s lightsaber. But the most important part is our primary crystal.”

Din looks up at her and finds Talia watching him. “Are these crystals Force-sensitive like you?”

“They are. Each Jedi has his own primary crystal; they’re like soulmates. And the kyber-focusing crystal has been known to enhance the Force skills of their users during combat.”

“So, without that connection,” he figures aloud, “a non-Force person can’t reach the lightsaber’s full potential.”

Talia nods and gives him a smile, proud that he is understanding this. Well, the weapon is not too hard to decipher, not like the Force itself.

“The crystal is the heart of the blade,” Talia informs him, her eyes closed once again. Her lightsaber’s pieces continue to float, but they seem to have more energy in them as she continues to talk. “The heart is the crystal of the Jedi. The Jedi is the crystal of the Force.” When she pauses, the components begin to draw closer together, twisting themselves to reconstruct the hilt. “The Force is the blade of the heart. All are intertwined. The crystal, the blade, the Jedi—we are one.”

The lightsaber, now pieced together, stands up vertically in the air. Din watches as Talia reaches for her weapon. Her hands wrap around its metal hilt, and her thumb flicks its switch. A snap-hiss tears through the air, sending chills down his spine. In a flash, a purple blade appears from the hilt and reaches for the ceiling. As it hums with power and energy, Din raises his chin upward so he can take it in, in its full glory. There is something reverent about the way Talia took the lightsaber apart and assembled it again.

When he steals a glance at her, he sees respect for her weapon shining in her eyes. Yet he also catches a glimpse of responsibility and regret, and he finds himself wondering how many battles she has fought with it, how many lives she has taken.

“Is it heavy?” he asks.

“At first, it was,” she replies. “But after a while, what it stood for was the reason why it can feel like a burden.” She offers him the hilt. “Go ahead. Feel it for yourself.”

Not being able to help himself—because what Mandalorian cannot resist trying a new weapon?—Din reaches for the hilt. Talia surrenders the lightsaber to him, but instead of pulling away from him, she presses her hands atop his gloved ones. Carrying most of the weight, she shows him how to hold it. As always, her touch is gentle and warm. Then, she releases her grip on him, leaving him alone to bear her weapon.

The hilt is a little heavier than he thought, and the metal is as hard as Beskar. But when he moves the lightsaber a little to the right, he realizes that the blade is weightless. The feeling almost throws him off.

“It’s . . .” He searches for the correct word. “It’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

He offers her the weapon. Her fingers brush up against his as she accepts it again. A click reaches his ears, and the blade sucks itself back into the hilt. The room seems duller without the purple saber glowing between them.

“It can cut through almost anything,” she tells him while clipping her lightsaber onto her belt. “But there are some exceptions.”

“Like what?”

She nods at him. “Like Beskar for one.”

For some reason, the news comforts him, and he is proud of his Mandalorian amor. Yet his brain shifts to the baby. “Can the kid have a lightsaber one day? When he’s old enough,” he quickly adds. The last thing he needs is for a baby to start messing around with a weapon.

“He can,” she says with a smile. “But there are a lot of things he needs to learn before he can be entrusted with a lightsaber. All younglings have to go through a process.”

“How old were you when you got yours?”

“I was nine when I made my first one.”

His ears perk up at that. “First? Is this your second?”

Talia nods then pulls out her gold necklace from under her clothes. The precious metal glimmers as she removes it from around her neck. He watches her put her emerald pendant in the palm of her hand.

“This was my first primary crystal,” she shares, which makes Din realize that is why the baby has been so fascinated with it. Her pendant is actually a Force-sensitive gem. “My lightsaber got destroyed near the end of the Clone War,” Talia continues. “When I was fourteen, I made another one, but I had to go through a Force-trial to get my crystal. I was shocked that it was purple instead of green.”

“Is there a significance behind the colors?” he asks, imagining a younger version of Talia wielding a green blade.

“Yes. Purple is rare; only a few Jedi in the Order’s history had a crystal of that color. One of greatest sat on our Council,” she reveals as she puts her necklace back on. “His name was Mace Windu. He was powerful, disciplined, wise, and even fierce. There were rumors amongst the Padawans that he could walk the line between the Dark Side and the Light without even being tempted to fall to the Dark.”

“So most purple lightsaber owners had a dark streak in them,” he states.

Talia nods. “That’s what I guessed. I’ve met Master Windu countless of times during my training. He took an interest in me, but I never understood why until I got older. And my new crystal proves I was a lot more like him than I thought. I think . . .” She briefly searches the ceiling for clarity. “I think he knew I was different than most younglings—and not different in a good way. If he wasn’t so concerned about the Republic back then, I have a feeling he might’ve taken me as his Padawan.”

She sounded so wistful as she spoke about this Master Windu. There is so much for him to absorb. It is almost as if he just received a crash course on the Force, the Jedi Code, lightsabers, and midi-chlorians. Although they are foreign to him, he cannot deny how fascinating they have been. His mind is filled with wonder as he tries to comprehend what Talia has shared. The anger and betrayal he had felt from this morning still stings, but he allows himself to listen without a bitter ear—all for the sake of the kid.

“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” Talia asks him, her voice soft.

He nods. And to think that she has kept this huge pile of information to herself for thirty years. He is starting to see why only a few people in her life know about her secret.

A loud beep penetrates the silence between them. Instinctively, Din jumps to his feet. Meanwhile, Talia pulls out her Imagecaster from her trousers’ pocket. She taps the middle of the circular device with her thumb, and a colored hologram of R6-D12 appears.

“R6!” she sighs in relief. “Where are you?”

“What took you so long?” Din growls at the droid.

The orange and white astromech whistles and beeps, its mechanical language quieter than usual. Inside Din’s helmet, he reads, _“In hyperspace, Master Dewan. The_ Alabaster Star _is on its way to Endor.”_

“What?!” she explains with wide eyes. “Endor?”

“Why?” Din demands. “That’s on the other side of the Outer Rim!”

“R6, what were you thinking?”

 _“You said to get Master Vandar out of Galidraan,”_ the droid sputters. _“And you said you wanted to see the place where the Rebellion defeated the—”_

“But I didn’t mean for you to take the youngling all the way over there,” Talia argues with her trash compactor.

“You listen to me, you tin-can,” Din barks at the small hologram. “If you don’t bring my kid back to me safe and sound in twenty-four hours, then I will—”

“R6,” Talia interrupts, throwing a knowing look at him. “Where are you _specifically_?”

The droid swivels its cone-shaped head before beeping, _“We just passed Socorro, in the Kibilini Sector. It’s not very far away from Shimia.”_

“Then we’ll rendezvous on Shimia. The same place where we were last time,” Talia decides. She glances at him. “Din? Is that all right?”

“Well,” he grumbles, glaring daggers at the metal nuisance. “It _is_ twenty-four hours away from where we are.” He pauses, anxious to get his child back. “Fine.”

“It’s settled,” she replies. “How’s the youngling, R6?”

 _“Sleeping,”_ the bucket of bolts reports. _“He woke up half an hour ago, and I warmed up some Bantha milk for him. Then, he went right back to sleep.”_

“Very good, my little friend. Contact me if he gets fussy.”

“He hardly gets that,” Din mutters. “Hey, you trash compactor. Let us know the moment something comes up with him. Or if there’s a problem.”

R6, clearly offended by his insult, spurts and whistles in a curt tone. Din reads: _“I don’t take orders from you, Meanie Mando! And I’m not the one who left him here in the first place. Some guardian you are! I hope that, when Master Dewan finally dumps you, your junkyard of a ship will explode into smithereens. And with you in it!”_

Before Din can send the smart-aleck astromech a blistering threat, R6’s hologram flickers off. He clenches his teeth together. Of all droids, why is that one in charge of his son?

Angered, he glances at Talia. Much to his annoyance, he finds her trying and failing to suppress a laugh. He remembers that, as far as she knows, he does not understand R6’s binary. Curious to find out how she plans to translate her precious droid’s insults, he asks gruffly, “What’d he say?”

Talia clears her throat. “He, uh, he’d prefer to take orders from me. And he thinks the _Crest_ needs to be better repaired.”

Quirking an eyebrow at her, he comments, “He didn’t say that at all.”

At her confused stare, he turns around and climbs up the ladder to his cockpit. Below him, he hears Talia ask how can he know what R6 had said to him, but he ignores her. He cannot help feeling smug at the knowledge that there are some things he can say or do that can still surprise Miss-I’ve-been-a-Jedi-and-a-Force-sensitive-all-this-time.

A smirk plays on his lips as he enters the coordinates for Shimia.

* * *

***** INTRODUCING *****

Steve Kazee as "Jedi Master Zebedee Asher"

_(I saw Steve Kazee on one of my shows, and I was impressed with his presence, his voice, his expressions, etc. I think he's the perfect fit to play Talia's master. So, congrats to Steve for being promoted to Jedi Master--even though he doesn't know it, Lol.)_

Also, Talia's humming that she uses to meditate is inspired by Steve Jablonsky's "Tessa."

Check it out: <https://www.youtube.com/embed/6vFUZEI6s84>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 2 is days away. I'm both excited and nervous about it. I don't know if I'll stop writing while it's being released or if I'll continue and just keep going in the direction that I've been planning since last November. But I am determined to finish Part 3 before October 30th. So, keep an eye out for another update!


	24. Talia Dewan

Chapter XXIV: Talia Dewan

Shimia is hours away. Din estimates they should reach it by early evening, and he is dreading landing there—again.

Since yesterday, he has kept himself holed up in the cockpit. He ate in here and even slept in the pilot’s chair. Talia, on the other hand, has remained in the main compartment below, minding her own business. They have not interacted much since their last conversation about the Force and her Jedi Order. Though helpful, he still does not feel as if he knows much about _her_. She seems relieved to be able to talk of her gift, its power, her lightsaber, and her Jedi beliefs. Yet . . . he suspects she is not being entirely herself, not really.

She said she wants to train the baby, but he cannot allow himself to trust her like before. He has no reason to believe that she will hurt him or the little one, either with the Force, her weapon, or another curtain of lies. But her lack of trust in him, her façade since Cholganna—he simply cannot move forward from them. It is against his nature to brush this deception off, despite how sincerely she had apologized for her actions.

And then, there is that debt he owes her. In good conscience, he cannot declare that he has fulfilled his duty in paying it off. Not yet. Plus, Talia keeps on saving his life over and over again—which is probably due to her Jedi upbringing and its selfless doctrine. How can he ever repay her at this rate? Before Galidraan, they had agreed that him allowing her to travel on the _Crest_ was his chance to help settle the debt. But now, after knowing that she has the Force and that she had belonged to the order of nemesis sorcerers that his Chief warned him about, his brain is telling him to put as much distance between them as he can.

The trust she earned from him was forfeit the moment she decided to continue to hide her secret. Was telling him really so hard for her? She has entrusted it to other people. Why was he so different? He is the guardian of a Force-sensitive being like her. Why did she not help him out and reveal that she shared the baby’s gift? She claims she is a Mandalorian; so, should she not have confided in him, a fellow member of the Creed?

His cold anger and resentment from the previous day has morphed into frustration and confusion. When he thinks of the Talia from Cholganna, the kind hostess from Onderon, half of him wants to trust her again. He hates this wall between them and finds himself missing his . . . well, his friend. It has been years since he opened up to anyone, let alone to someone as genuine and thoughtful as her, despite her stubbornness. And their conversation yesterday morning in the cargo hold reminded him of the comradery they just recently shared, the bond that formed between them the first time they met—even if it had been against his will back then.

Din releases a tired sigh. From what he understands, Talia still wants to be friends. She also wants to stay in the kid’s life so she can teach him to follow this Light Side of the Force. Overall, he is not sure what to think of her Jedi Code nor of her philosophy. But he knows that he does not want the kid to abuse his Force skills and fall to the Dark Side—or whatever that truly means. He has no idea how he can prevent that without Talia’s help. And that means . . . Well, whether he likes it or not, it means she will more than likely have to keep on training the kid. For as long as she needs to. After all, he does not know how fast or how slow the little womp-rat’s growing stages and maturity will take.

His Mandalorian background rebels at the thought of giving an enemy-Jedi another chance, yet he needs to—for the sake and the future of his adoptive son. If Talia does something Din disapproves of, then as a newly promoted father, he has every right to step in and protect his child, even if the idea of Force-training is so outlandish to him.

He thinks about Talia hoping to raise his son as a Jedi. Why? They are gone, and she does not approve of everything they taught. What is the point of teaching the baby that?

With a head full of more questions and concerns, Din slips out of his pilot’s chair. Before he knows it, he is in the main compartment of the _Crest_ , standing in front of Talia.

“Convince me,” he blurts out.

At this, she looks at him, confused. Talia is sitting on a cargo box and was cleaning her DE-10, Mandalorian-made blaster pistol with one of his worn-out red rags. All of the lights are on, giving the compartment a warm look to it. Her weapon has been dissembled so she can polish its pieces individually, and he notices that the tips of her fingers are covered with grease and dirt.

“Convince you?” she repeats slowly, her refined accent painted with uncertainty. “About . . . ?”

“That your Jedi Order and its Code is the right path for the kid,” he answers.

Talia puts down her rag and the cylinder she was shining. As she reassembles her pistol, she asks, “And how do you want me to convince you?”

“My Armorer called Jedi our enemies. Sorcerers,” he reminds her. “I need to know more about them if I’m going to let my kid train to be one of them.”

Hope sparkles in her dark eyes, yet after a couple of seconds, it extinguishes. Disbelief soon swirls in her gaze as she surveys him. “I thought you don’t trust me,” she says. “And that you didn’t want to.”

“That was before I knew about this Dark Side you mentioned yesterday,” he explains. “If what you said is true, then this is bigger than me. My kid’s future depends on this, and I won’t deprive him of learning how to use his Force just because I don’t like that you lied to me.”

When Talia drops her gaze from his visor in shame, a part of him regrets sounding so gruff. But the truth hurts—her secret has demonstrated that.

Several seconds pass, giving Talia enough time to put her blaster back together again. He waits, knowing she will not refuse him. After she slides her weapon in her black leather holster, she grabs a damp rag that has been sitting beside her and wipes her dirty fingers clean.

“Very well,” she replies, tossing the rag on a nearby crate. “You want to know more. So, ask whatever you like.”

“I really don’t know _what_ to ask,” he admits. “Tell me your story, how _you_ became a Jedi. I’ll interrupt if I have questions.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

Talia thinks about his request. It is reasonable and calculated, just like him. But what stops her from immediately agreeing to it is knowing that she will have to re-live some of the hardest and worst moments of her life. She has never shared a full-length story of her upbringing with the Jedi before. It has always been hard for her to talk about it, so she only gave fragments at a time. And knowing how strong of a hold the past still has on her, she will not be able to victoriously fight against its pain or to stop herself from crying right in front of him.

 _“Move forward,”_ she remembers her master’s words from the day before. _“A Jedi must accept the reality that they live in and continue on with their lives.”_

“Sounds like a plan,” she answers in a neutral voice. “It’s a good thing we have plenty of time. This is going to be a long story.”

As she takes in a deep breath, trying to mentally steel herself, her friend walks over to the cargo box stationed across from her. She closes her eyes for a moment, and she can hear him sit down. When she opens them again, she finds him leaning against the wall of the _Crest_ , arms crossed and looking completely relaxed. With his silver armor and helmet covering him from head to toe, she cannot pinpoint what he is feeling at the moment. Other times, it had not been too hard to figure him out—not when his posture, his tone, and his words gave away what was going through his head. But now, he is displaying an air of ease, which she knows must be a front. Based on her previous study of him and on his recent request to learn more about her, she suspects he is curious and possibly even anxious. However, she cannot tell for sure. Not unless she considers tapping into the Force so she can _deeply_ read him.

 _Don’t go there,_ she reprimands herself. _You haven’t done that to him before, and you’re not going to start now._

Straightening her shoulders, she takes in another breath before slowly releasing it.

_Here goes nothing._

“As you know,” she begins, “I was born with the Force. I told you my mother had it, too, but her sensitivity wasn’t strong enough for her to actually wield it like me. For her, it was like a subtle sixth sense. It, uh . . .” Her throat feels dry at the memory of her mother’s anxious blue eyes and wobbly smile. “This extra sense made her unsteady. She was nervous all the time and very emotional. But my father grounded her. And, they were happy.”

The phrase “until I came along” is on the tip of her tongue, but Talia stops herself from uttering it. Instead, she clears her throat.

“When I was born, my mother felt that the Force was flowing through me stronger than her. She became uneasy again because she knew I would need training from the Jedi Order. But that also meant she would have to give me up.”

“The Jedi took Force-sensitive babies?” her companion asks.

“Toddlers,” she corrects, remembering being surrounded by three and four-year-olds at the Temple. “Since the Code forbids attachments, the Jedi believed in accepting younglings early so they would not be too connected to their families and homeworlds. It was a method to help remove distractions and outside loyalties. It was so we could put the Order and the Republic and others first.”

“Sounds harsh,” he remarks, his gravelly voice peppered with disapproval.

“That was the custom,” she sighs. Talia drops her gaze to her hands as they sit in her lap. “I know a lot of people don’t remember much when they’re toddlers. But because of the Force, I do. Before I was taken to the Order, my mother tried to keep me for as long as she could. She taught me to be calm and brave if I ever picked up something with my power.”

The corner of her mouth wants to form a smile as her mother’s tune to soothe her fear floats in the back of her mind. The song bonded them closer together than blood ever could—something her father did not understand.

Trying to ignore that last thought, Talia says, “My mother was so proud of what I could do. I remember she said she hoped I wouldn’t be like her. For most of her life, people gave her a wide berth. She could almost sense what others felt. And she had this charismatic way about her that got people to see her side of things.”

“And Onderonians are superstitious,” she hears him point out.

She glances at him. He has not moved from his position. “Yeah, they are,” she replies with a half-smile. “They were afraid of her. And of me when I went back to Onderon. But raising me changed my mother. She proved to be stronger than she thought. She grew protective of me and my powers.”

“How’d your father feel about it?” he asks, and she knows he must be thinking about what she told him months ago of how she believed her father loved her mother more than her.

 _It wasn’t always like that,_ a soft voice reminds her. It sounds like her mother.

“He saw potential with my gift,” she reveals with a shrug. “More than anything, he wanted me to become a Mandalorian and take his place as Clan Kex’s Chief. He thought that me having the Force would’ve made me a great warrior, a powerful leader.”

As she takes in a deep breath, she hears Din scoff to himself. It seems his view of her father is not as generous as hers. But then, she can never forget the love that used to flow from his dark eyes when she was learning to walk or when he comforted her after a nightmare.

“My mother didn’t want that,” she tells him. “She knew her little exercises weren’t enough to discipline me because my powers were growing stronger. My father insisted she was teaching me just fine, but she knew better. It took some time, but she convinced him that I needed to be taken to the Jedi in the Capital.”

“Your file said you were sent to a school on Coruscant,” he supplies while uncrossing his arms. “To further your education and training. It said you were three years old.”

She nods. Briefly closing her eyes, she sees flashes of the city planet, its endless skyscrapers and speeder lanes stretching for miles. She can still smell the air seasoned with smog and motor oil. Coruscant looked so huge to her little mind that she had clung to her mother in fear. During the taxi drive to the Temple, she sat in her mother’s lap, and she was able to sense the war raging inside her.

“That was a cover,” she explains. “No one except my parents, grandparents, and my great-grandfather knew the real truth about me. They knew how Onderon, and even the Clans, would react if they found out I had the Force.”

Din sits forward and sets his elbows on his knees. His silver armor gleams in the lights, and her eyes linger on his Mudhorn signet. Not for the first time, she wants to run her fingers over it.

“Lance said one of your ancestors was a sorcerer called Freedon Nadd,” he remarks, and she is again surprised that her honorary nephew revealed _that_ of all things about her. This particular piece of her family history is not something she is proud of. “I’ll take it he was a Force-sensitive, too.”

“Yes. He fell to the Dark Side and became a Sith Lord. He ruled the entire Japrael System with fear and aggression.”

“But that was thousands of years ago.”

“And my people have long memories,” she adds. She pulls up her legs onto her crate and crosses them. “Onderonians shun anyone who have the Force in them—including the Jedi. And they really mistrust royals with it. I was one of the first Force-sensitives on my planet in decades. So, I couldn’t stay there, especially without disciplined training. But,” she slowly reveals, “when I went to Coruscant, I couldn’t use my Mandalorian surname.”

At this, she watches Din tilt his head at her. She wonders if he is insulted by the decision like her father had been.

“Because of the bad blood between us and the Jedi?”

She nods. Her heart skips an excited beat at his word _us_. Maybe he is starting to consider her as a Mandalorian again. But she presses her lips together to prevent her from smiling.

“Yes. No one—and definitely not the Jedi—would be overly thrilled to see a Mandalorian carrying a lightsaber. So, my mother gave me her family’s name, and I was presented to the Council as ‘Talia Dewan.’”

As if it was yesterday, she remembers standing in front of the Council Members. Beforehand, her mother had told her not to be afraid, that she would be with her every step of the way. While her father waited outside the Temple, she and her mother were taken to the Council Chambers. She felt the Force flowing through the room, and it was nothing she had ever experienced before that moment. Master Yoda’s warm gaze helped her relax while Master Ki-Adi-Mundi’s dignified nod made her chest expand with confidence. She met Master Windu’s intense brown eyes with her own as he explained the Force exercise she would need to complete. And while she underwent the simple test, she could sense her mother pacing outside the Chamber. Sorrow was emanating from her, but Talia did not understand why at the time.

“You’re going by the name again,” she hears Din say, pulling her out of her memories. “R6 called you ‘Master Dewan’ a couple of times already.”

In his tone, she heard a question hidden in his observation as to why she is doing that. It is a prod, one she could easily ignore, but she decides not to. She said she will tell him anything he wants to know—even if it is implied.

“There’s no need for me to hide anymore,” she confesses. “It’s my Jedi name, and I’ve missed the meaning behind it.”

He does not nod at her, nor does he move an inch. His shoulders do not look tense as he continues to lean forward on his elbows, and she chooses to focus on her narrative rather than the idea to use the Force so it can help her understand what he is feeling.

“After I was accepted into the Order, my mother was never the same.”

She does not share that she could feel her mother’s grief as she left her at the Temple. It wailed through the Force like a Varactyl who was emotionally wounded at being separated from her offspring. Talia cried herself to sleep that night as she lay in bed. Not even the peaceful Force auras from the slumbering younglings that surrounded her had been enough to soothe the intense longing she felt for her parents.

“Over the years,” she continues, “my mother would take frequent trips to Coruscant, just to be near me. I could sense her presence every time she entered the atmosphere.”

“But you couldn’t see her,” Din states. “Attachments weren’t allowed.”

A shrewd smile plays on her lips. “That didn’t stop me from sneaking out of the Temple so I could be with her.” She thinks she hears him breathe out a smirk behind his helmet, and she wonders if his eyes are twinkling. “It didn’t matter that I could’ve been kicked out of the Order if I’d been caught. I wouldn’t give her up.”

“Did Tezok go with her?” he asks about her father.

“No, he stayed home. He wasn’t happy that I was adopted by the Jedi, but I think,” she confides, “he saw me as no longer part of the Clan. Or even the family. In his own way, he was letting me go.”

She senses him stiffen at the revelation. “Were you able to see your mother that whole time?”

“Yes. She even gave me a coded communicator so we could send recorded holograms to each other. And I was able to stay in touch with my grandparents.”

“And no one found out?” he double-checks, and she can hear disbelief coloring his tone.

“Not for a while. But one time, my master Zeb saw me sneak out. And he, uh, he followed me.”

Din tilts his head at her, his shiny helmet looking exceptionally pristine today. When he does not say anything, she takes this as her cue to continue.

“He didn’t tell anyone,” she clarifies. “And he didn’t forbid me to see my mother again. He was going to at first. But then, he saw that my visits with her would give me clarity during my exercises. I was calmer, more focused.”

“You told me he believed in attachments,” he observes. “So, he allowed it?”

Her eyes stray to the side, and she can feel her mouth form a fond smile. “He did. He even helped me arrange for my meetings with her. It was our secret. He saw how much my mother’s influence benefited me.”

 _You really were a rebel, Master,_ she silently tells her absent teacher.

“When did you start training under Zeb?” she hears Din wonder.

“I became his Apprentice at seven,” she replies, looking at him.

Her companion then asks her what she did before that, so she explains the training process for the younglings. She mentions how they lived in groups of ten initiates and were under the guidance of a Jedi Master. Their training was primarily focused on learning Jedi history, meditating, memorizing the Jedi Code, studying languages, and becoming even more connected to the Force with exercises.

“What about your lightsabers?” Din queries.

“We didn’t learn that right away. And when we did, we were given training sabers only. Our Order wanted our foundation to be built on peace and diplomacy, not combat.”

“How long is the training for these younglings?”

Talia shrugs. “It depends on the species. But they’re usually younglings for about ten years. Then, they’re chosen to be a master’s Padawan.”

Silence fills the space between them. She watches Din nod his head before slouching against the ship’s wall. Based on his line of questioning these past few minutes, she suspects he is thinking about the baby. Since the little one is supposedly fifty years old, his training may take longer than ten years. Talia curses herself for not asking Master Yoda to share more about his childhood and past. But then, knowing him, he would have evaded her inquiries and left her with even more questions than before.

“My first teacher,” she continues after a while, “and Grand Master Yoda were concerned about me while I was a youngling. At the time, I didn’t really understand why. Zeb told me later on they thought my bond with my mother was still too strong from my childhood.” Absentmindedly, her fingers start playing with her Padawan braid. “They saw that I was isolating myself from everyone around me. I was focused on my training to the point of exhaustion, but honestly, I was lonely. I couldn’t seem to make friends, even with the other younglings I was grouped with.

“The main thing about me that my instructors approved of was my disciplined learning. They were impressed with how advanced I had become in such a short time. But they saw a dark streak in me.”

“You mean the Dark Side,” Din comments.

Talia gives him a slow nod. “I assumed so.”

As she runs her fingers up and down her soft braid, she can still hear the masters’ whispered debates. _“Young, she is, to have such shadows obscuring her future,”_ Yoda had said in his guttural voice. _“Brought sooner to us, perhaps she should have been.”_

“Around that time,” she continues, pushing aside the memory, “Master Zeb heard them talking about me. He was curious, and he felt the Force stir his interest. So, for the next few weeks, he started watching my training from a distance.

“He hadn’t had a Padawan in years,” she explains, dropping her braid. “After his first student finished his apprenticeship, Zeb hadn’t been expecting to take on another. But he said he saw himself in me: the discipline, the rebellious nature, and even the stubbornness.”

“You two sound like quite the pair,” Din mutters. Though she could have been offended by how terse his tone was, Talia accepts his observation as a compliment and sends him a proud smile.

“Zeb wasn’t thinking about training me himself,” she informs him. “Not until he heard my instructors and Master Yoda debate on whether to expel me. He thought that my leaving the Order would’ve been a waste of potential. So, he barged in on their discussion and announced that he was claiming me as his new Padawan.”

A humph comes from behind Din’s helmet—it almost sounds humored. And because she does not think that what she said was in any way funny, she sends him a curious look.

“For a group who believes in having no emotions,” he observes, “it’s ironic that drama is still able to exist among them.”

A chuckle escapes her lips before she could stop it. She has never thought of it like that before.

“That was only the beginning,” she shares. “Master Zeb’s declaration caused quite a stir. Rumors spread throughout the Temple. I heard some say the Council argued I was too young to be a Padawan. Most aren’t chosen until eleven or twelve, and Zeb was willing to teach a seven-year-old. But my age wasn’t the only thing that worried the Council.”

“Your mother?” her companion guesses.

“Actually, it was my master himself. You see, Zebedee Asher was known to be a reckless Jedi Knight. And Koa-Li’s death almost twenty years earlier still had an effect on him. Especially the older he got,” she discloses. “By that point, Zeb was having doubts about the Code and the Jedi Order. He’d lost friends, like his master, and even someone very special to him.”

“You mean he fell in love,” Din bluntly states.

She nods. “He didn’t really talk much about her. All I know is that he met her about a decade after he finished his own training. He was heartbroken when she was killed during her planet’s civil war.”

“Did he lean towards the Dark Side?”

Talia takes a moment to form her answer. Her master was always sad about losing his love. His brown eyes would look dim while his sharp jawline softened. Yet he seemed at peace with what happened, as if he knew there was nothing that he could have done to prevent her death. Though he admitted he had been angry and bitter for years, he also said he was on the verge of leaving the Jedi Order. He had felt that their demands to stay emotionally separate whilst offering compassion to the people they helped was too contradictory. But did he hear the Dark Side’s alluring song? Was he tempted to surrender to it?

“He must have,” she replies. Even in her own ears, her voice sounds uncertain. “I did when Surjay was killed. I know that, like me, Zeb was devastated and struggled not to let his emotions dictate his actions.”

“But he recovered,” Din observes.

“In a way, yes. And after a while, he began walking the line where the Jedi Code was concerned. He even did research on the teachings of the Gray Jedi and their beliefs. But he made sure not to share his doubts. Not that it was very hard—my master always had a quiet nature,” she divulges. “But his actions were starting to speak louder than his silence. Most of his opinions were . . . unconventional. Only someone as disciplined as he was could practice his beliefs without falling to the Dark Side.”

“And he passed them down to you.”

“Well . . . no. I mean, not really. When I saw he wasn’t exactly living out what he was teaching me, I wanted to do what he was. But he wouldn’t explain his reasons to me. He said I was too young to understand, that I wasn’t grounded in the Jedi enough to make those decisions for myself just yet.”

 _“But Master,”_ she had once argued, _“you said a Jedi shouldn’t use their lightsaber unless we don’t have a choice. And you pulled out yours before the negotiations even started!”_

“He didn’t share his doubts with me until the Clone War,” Talia reveals. “It’s because I was starting to wrestle with some of my own. He said the fighting made me grow up faster, gave me wisdom. And it did.”

Talia feels her muscles tense as she remembers the horrors that she saw the Separatists accomplish all those years ago. The ruthless bombardments of cities, the destruction of countless battle cruisers, the blizzards of red blaster fire. Her gaze falls to the floor. She can still hear the Clones crying out for help as arson droids spewed fire from their weapons, cooking the men alive in their trenches on Pengalan IV. Zeb had done his best to protect their squad while Talia curled into a ball in the dirt, covering her ears so she could block out the screams.

“It was another one of our secrets,” she quietly says. “We knew that, if the Council found out what he was teaching me, we both would’ve been kicked out of the Order.”

“What other beliefs did he have?” Din inquires, getting up so he can start pacing across the cargo hold. “You know, against your Code.”

Talia knew he would ask this at some point. A part of her does not want to answer since she has no desire to confuse him further in the ways of the Force. However, he wants her to convince him as to why he should allow Vandar to train as a Jedi, to train under her. She needs to gain his approval.

 _Just not with this. Not now,_ she decides.

“I want to tell you, truly,” she begins. When he stops pacing and looks at her, she quickly adds, “But it’ll start us down a long discussion of the other things that led my master to compromise the Jedi Code, plus my own choices and various debates within the Order. Maybe later?”

For three long seconds, he just stares at her. At least, she assumes that is what he is doing. Through the Force, she can feel his body tense up, telling her that he is not pleased with her answer. But he gives her a curt nod, and the sharp edges of his visor look more unforgiving than usual.

“Fine,” he replies. “Later.” After she gives him a thankful smile, he asks, “Do you have a hologram of your master?”

Her smile grows at the request, and she quickly retrieves her Imagecaster from her trousers’ pocket. Lifting it to her mouth, she whispers, “Asher, Zebedee.” She then taps the middle of the circular device with her thumb.

As a colored hologram of her master appears, she extends her hand so Din can study it. When he stands closer, the light from the moving projection bounces off his Beskar armor like an apparition. Her master’s blue lightsaber is activated, and the hologram is replaying one of Zeb’s lessons on Form V, the Shien combat style that she has adopted as her own. His small image is slow as he moves his blade in sharp angles. A soft buzz from the hologram sounds like a bee’s rather than the usual humming of a Jedi’s weapon. Its blue blade enhances the gray in Zeb’s beard, yet there is a youthful quality in his expression as he begins to pick up speed in his lesson. His lightsaber soon becomes a blur, and Talia sees his brown eyes shine with determination like they always do. She knows the recording by heart and can even name the individual techniques just by the sound of his saber’s buzzing. But her attention is fixated on her master—she has never tired of watching him wield his weapon.

“You fought just like that,” she hears Din remark. He nods at the hologram.

“I had a good teacher,” she says with a fond smile. With another tap of her thumb on the Imagecaster’s center, she turns off her device. “Zeb was an amazing fighter. He was so fast, so precise. I thought I’d never be as good as him.”

“He must’ve been something to watch during the Clone War,” Din remarks, and she can hear how thoughtful he sounds, as if he is imagining it.

“He was,” she murmurs, remembering one instance when Zeb ran down a corridor filled with droids, his lightsaber activated. He was a blur of brown and blue as he slashed his blade while twisting his body into flips according to the Ataru Form. “He was made a General in the Grand Army of the Republic,” she shares. “His cunning and resolve got us out of a lot of tight situations. He was able to make tough decisions in the field—and they were the kind of decisions that no one wanted to make. But my master could do them,” she says proudly. “A few months into the war, the Council assigned him to a special forces group from our Clones: ARC troopers.”

“Never heard of them,” her companion admits, sitting back down on his cargo box.

Talia then explains that _ARC_ stood for ‘Advanced Recon Commandos.’ This unit of Clones was an elite force and the most skilled in the entire army. The original soldiers were called Alpha-class ARC troopers because, unlike the rest of their brothers, they were distinctively creative in the field and genetically altered to be physically superior than the others. They were strong-willed and fiercely loyal to both their fellow Clones and their Jedi commanders, like her and her master. But as the war stretched from one year into three, the elite group had naturally begun to dwindle. So, the army decided to promote the most experienced and exceptional Clones as a new generation of ARC troopers.

“The Alpha’s trainer—who was also the original genetic template for the Clones—was Jango Fett,” Talia reveals while fiddling with her hand-held communicator. At this, Din sits up straighter, and she suppresses a smile. “Small galaxy, huh?” she asks good-naturedly.

“You’re telling me.”

“That’s why the original ARCs were so good at their jobs,” she says. “Our captain—he called himself ‘Shane’—told us that Fett incorporated a lot of himself in them. And he personally oversaw their training. They fought like Mandos. Even acted like them: they were stubborn and really independent. Maybe too much.”

“They give you trouble?”

“Only in the beginning. They weren’t designed with the Clones’ standard-behavior, correction gene, so they didn’t have any problem questioning orders. Even my master’s,” she chuckles fondly. “But they warmed up to him when they saw he meant business.”

“What about you?” Din asks.

Talia blinks at him. “What about me?”

“How’d they feel about having a kid with them? You were nine, right?” he double-checks, and she is impressed at how close he pays attention to details such as her age.

“I actually turned ten when I met them,” she corrects and even offers a teasing smile. But because of his helmet, she is not sure how he responded to it. “They weren’t a fan of me joining them on covert ops. Not at first.”

In an instant, she is transported back to their first special forces mission on Virgillia 7. It was about four months after the Battle of Geonosis, and she already had some experience on the field slicing droids with her lightsaber alongside her master. Their mission on Virgillia 7 with their new team was to rescue a fellow Jedi and her scouting party from the Separatists. While Zeb would lead the bulk of their group in an extraction plan, Talia was to go with the rest of their ARCs in a sabotage scheme that would provide a perfect distraction.

 _“Excuse me, General,”_ Shane had whispered to her master after the debrief. The Concord Dawn accent that he and his fellow Clones had inherited from Fett was low, but Talia could still hear him clearly. _“I don’t think yer Apprentice should come along. She’s jus’ a kid. Why don’t you leave her here on the ship? Put her on comms or somethin’.”_

 _“Talia will be a part of the distraction group, Captain,”_ Zeb had replied matter-of-factually. _“Remember: I’m not putting her in charge. She already knows that Sergeant Jax is in command. And she_ will _obey his orders.”_

“But they came around,” she tells Din, remembering how impressed her new friends had been with her combat fighting and obedience in following instructions. “We started out with a squad of thirteen ARC troopers. During the war, we hopped from campaign to campaign. We went wherever we were needed, and we hardly stayed on one planet too long.”

There were weeks when her body would drag from interrupted sleep and hazardous terrains. Her bones had shivered like a leaf on Ossus, and she was always damp on Togoria. She had bruises on her bruises and always had some kind of bandage on. Too many times she wanted to just go back to Coruscant and be safe in the Jedi Temple. She longed for the tranquility in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and she found herself tempted to give up before she was plunged into a new campaign. But her master helped her pull through with his understanding tone and patient lessons. Even the comradery and friendship she shared with her ARC troopers made the days bearable.

“After three years of fighting,” she sighs, her heart feeling heavy, “we lost almost half of our group.”

Silence settles in the cargo hold. With every passing second, her mind conjures up each Clone that she fought with. Though their facial structures were the same, even their eyes, each man was different. Their personalities and personal preferences shone through with the tattoos they had and the hair styles they chose. She thinks of Captain Shane whose average-looking Clone face was altered due to a trio of thin scratches across his face that he received during their Togorian campaign. Her heart is warmed by the memory of Chance with his goatee and shaved head and of Thirteen with the number ‘13’ tattooed on his left temple.

“Lightning Squad,” Din interrupts her thoughts, his raspy voice jolting her to the present. “You showed me a couple of holograms of them back on Onderon.”

“You remember,” she praises him, not bothering to hide the surprise in her accent. At that time almost a month ago, she thought he had been humoring her in her grief.

“I remember everything you told me.” His tone is clipped and professional. “But I don’t know which are the lies.”

 _Okay, I deserved that,_ she thinks with an inward grimace.

“My Clones aren’t lies,” she tells him while trying to keep herself from sounding too protective.

“ _Your_ Clones?” he asks.

“To the Jedi, the Clones weren’t just ‘clones.’ They were people. Men,” she emphasizes. “We cared about them, felt their pain and losses. Lightning Squad, the ARCs—they were my best friends. We had each other’s backs. I led them into battle with my master. We fought with them. Bled for them,” she murmurs, feeling her throat become thick with emotion.

As she fiddles with her Imagecaster in her hand, the round metal digs into her calloused palms. She then presses forward in her tale.

“About seven of our original Alpha-class ARC troopers had survived to the end of the war. Not surprising since they behaved more like Mandalorians in the field. But they were a bunch of softies when I was with them during our down-time.” She chuckles at the memory. “They were a rowdy bunch with fast reflexes. And they really were the best in the army.”

“Sounded like you fit right in with them. You and your master,” Din remarks, and she thinks she hears a smile hidden in his words.

“Oh, we did.” She pauses when, at the last minute, an idea jumps on her. “Let me show you,” she offers, but she does not wait for his approval. Instead, she whispers, “Lightning Boys,” to her Imagecaster and extends her hand to him.

Her heart tightens when an old hologram of her Sterling Seven appears. The recorded scene had been captured on Omwat, a savanna and mountainous planet in the Outer Rim. Her ARCs were about to enter into a new mission when she begged to take this hologram of them. They are all wearing their helmets, their weapons drawn. She did not tell them to form a horizontal line: they did that themselves, much to her amusement. Their stances are relaxed yet alert, and she remembers their united, confident attitude. Even now, she can feel their energy just waiting to be unleashed so they could kick out the droid army from the planet.

Talia glances at her companion, curious to know what he thinks of the men whose helmets remind her of his. She wonders if he believes that the white substance falling from the sky is snow. Anyone not on Omwat would assume that. But this ‘snow’ was actually ashes floating on the wind. The Separatists had burned down the planet’s grasslands, filling the air with smoke and cinders.

“Captain Shane’s in the middle,” she explains, nodding at the trooper with red armor. “Then there’s Hound, Sergeant Jax,” she continues while pointing to each one, “Ace, Lucky Thirteen, Knick-knack, and Chance.”

A heartbeat passes before Din comments, “Interesting nicknames. Did they give you one?”

“Tallie,” she says, forcing herself to swallow the lump that is beginning to form at the back of her throat.

“Your family calls you that,” he remarks quietly, almost gently.

“They _were_ my family. They were my older brothers,” she whispers, looking at him. She studies his visor for a second longer than she should before she drops her eyes and turns off her Imagecaster. Clearing her throat, she ignores the way Din tilts his head at her. “Lightning and me and Zeb—we fit well with whatever campaign we were assigned to help out. The 112th Legion was the one we worked with the most. And the 501st,” she adds, thinking of a certain captain with blue armor and dual blaster pistols. “We went to so many planets. Ord Trasi, Mygeeto,” she lists off, “Byblos, Triton, Dellalt—to name a few.”

“A few?” her friend scoffs with a hint of humor. “You saw more of the galaxy than you let on.”

Talia shrugs her shoulders as she stashes away her communicator. “I couldn’t say I’ve been to many. People would’ve been suspicious. But one of my favorites—which was the last planet we went to—was Kashyyyk.”

The news seems to catch Din’s attention because he sits up straighter. “The Wookies’ homeworld? What where you doing there?”

In the next several minutes, she explains her final mission. Her master and the Squad were sent to destroy a major shipping dock that the Separatists had taken from the Wookies and the Republic. Their group of nine was teamed up with the 112th Legion again. With the help of 250 Clones, Zeb and Shane planned a huge assault on the massive dock. They received orders from Master Yoda, who had arrived on Kashyyyk later, to recapture the facility if it was possible. Turning it to rubble would be a last resort—which had lowered Hound’s spirits. Of all their ARCs, he liked explosions the most, a personal preference that was unusual for someone in his covert line of work.

“Kashyyyk was an important planet in the Mid-Rim for us,” Talia informs her companion. “We couldn’t afford to lose it, and neither could the Separatists.”

While Din leans forward in his seat again, she shares that after a week of planning and scouting they initiated their attack. She does not tell him that the day after the assault would have been her twelfth birthday. Nor that, as an early present from her master, Zeb not only promoted her to corporal but also had her lead a covert op with four of their ARCs. They were assigned to sneak behind the dock so they could take the facility from the inside. She had been both proud and nervous at her new responsibilities, but she did not let those emotions get the best of her. Her team and her master were depending on her to get the job done, and that drove her to succeed.

The droid army, she reveals to Din, had tried to fend them off. The battle lasted more than a few hours, yet in the end, the Separatists retreated. It was not until half a week later when Republic command on the planet realized that the droids did this so they could prepare for a full-scale attack in the upcoming month.

“And that’s why we stayed there longer than we planned,” she says. “My master had orders to keep our remaining forces at the dock. If the droids were planning to overrun us in their big assault, we would be needed to hold it.”

“And did they attack?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “The dock wasn’t touched. After the main battle was handled, Lightning was able to rest. And I didn’t mind. I liked Kashyyyk. We’d been there for weeks by then, and I was starting to understand the language. Well,” she corrects with a small chuckle, “with the help of the Force, I was able to. The Wookies—they were special.”

With fondness and reverence flowing in her heart, she relays that she and Zeb were given the freedom to move around to different parts of the planet. Even though there were minor skirmishes initiated by the droids, Talia had found Kashyyyk to be more restful than the other Systems she traveled to. With her master, they inspected other ARC troopers and helped set up better defenses. But what she liked the most was meeting the Jedi Masters stationed there such as Yoda, Luminara Unduli, Quinlan Vos, Tsui Choi, and Etain Tur-Mukan.

“I was given the chance to learn something from them. It was a privilege,” she says. “They were so strong in the Force. I was in awe of them, especially Master Luminara. Her former Padawan had become a Jedi Healer—it was something she also had some experience in.”

“And she got you started in healing,” Din supplies.

She nods. “Zeb knew how to heal, too, and Master Luminara was able to teach us both a thing or two.” Her small smiles falters on her lips as she says, “I just wish we had more time with her.”

A heartbeat passes. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices that her companion nods at her, pointing out, “I know that look. What happened?”

Her gaze drops her lap. Not sure how to describe the most harrowing day in her life, she shifts in her seat, trying to buy her some time. She uncrosses her legs and sets her boots on the floor—they ground her. With a deep breath, she reaches out to the Force. Its soothing melody comforts her, and she braces herself to face a piece of her past that she has hardly talked about but is still plagued by.

“This was near the end of the war,” she begins, her voice quiet. “We staved off the Separatist attacks on Kashyyyk. Everything seemed fine. It _was_ fine. But that’s when . . . our Clones . . . they . . .” Her throat suddenly feels tight, and she studies the floor before inwardly kicking herself for getting emotional less than minute into her explanation.

“They turned on you,” Din finishes for her.

Hearing that, with it sounding so simple yet so final, forces her to close her eyes. Water is on the verge of spilling from behind her eyelids. She quickly blinks them away, and the lump in her throat grows. In a matter of milliseconds, she is soon filled with the familiar assault of fear and confusion from that awful battle. But she allows the Force’s power flowing through her to merge with its gentle trait of peacefulness. Afterwards, she feels herself relax ever so slightly as she basks in the Force’s reassuring symphony.

In the back of her mind, a line from the Gray Jedi Code surfaces: _“Through power entwined with serenity, there is harmony.”_

 _“You need to keep going,”_ she hears her master whisper to her. _“You need to finish this. Face your pain. Free yourself from guilt.”_

With a nod, she clears her throat, but it makes the lump bigger.

“Sorry,” she manages to say. She briefly looks at her companion. “I just . . . I can never think—let alone talk—about that day without re-living it. It, uh, well, it was the most traumatizing experience of my life. I just turned twelve at the time, and it’s haunted me since.”

Din says nothing. Since this subject is obviously difficult for her to repeat, he disappoints her by not telling her to stop. _Any decent person would,_ Talia inwardly scoffs, yet she knows she is being unkind. His silence is, if anything, proof of his curiosity, and she should see this as a good thing.

Sitting up straighter, she continues. Every word she utters, every sentence she finishes is a trial as she recounts that the entire 112th Legion assigned to her and Zeb turned on them. Since Lightning Squad participated in several campaigns with them, she had grown close to a few of the platoons. While she was talking shop with some of them, they received a transmission that turned her world upside-down in every way possible.

“I didn’t hear what their new orders were,” she admits. “But that’s when the men I was with attacked me. My master was nearby. He had felt something stirring in the Force before it happened. He . . . killed the Clones who were about kill me.”

She remembers his blue lightsaber decapitating the troopers; his movements were faster than the blink of an eye. Like sacks of grain, their bodies and weapons dropped to the jungle floor. Her young, shocked brain could not fathom what she had witnessed, and for a few seconds, she convinced herself that Zeb murdered her friends without an ounce of remorse.

“He . . . he saved me,” she whispers. “W-we didn’t know why they attacked us. And I just stood there, too stunned to move. Zeb had to shake me hard so I could snap out of it.”

“How was this possible?” Din asks, bewildered. “Why would they turn on you? You said you guys fought together for years. No one could betray their comrades that easily.”

She reminds him that the Clones were designed with a standard-behavior, correction gene. They were made to not question orders, a trait that was literally imbedded in their DNA. Yet what reinforced this was the chip they all had implanted deep in their brains. She relays that the Clones’ Kaminoan makers professed the chips were to help them with their numerous protocol guidelines while also keeping them in-check.

“So, when Emperor Palpatine instructed them to kill their Jedi commanders,” she tells him, “the Clones really didn’t have a choice in the matter. Palpatine claimed the Jedi were trying to take control of the Republic. But we weren’t. We were trying to save it,” she insists, feeling her bitterness distort the calm harmony of the Force.

Through tight lips she murmurs, “Later on, I learned the order was called ‘Order 66.’ I could feel it happening throughout the galaxy. There was an uproar in the Force: it was rippling, wailing, while everything zoomed around me so fast that my brain couldn’t catch up.”

With shaky breaths, she tells him of the Clones that she and Zeb had to kill so they could escape. Some of the Wookies tried to help them, and they were gunned down as traitors. Their small group raced into the jungle, dodging blaster fire and detonators for what felt like an eternity. Even after all these years, she can still hear the Wookies’ roars, the troopers shouting orders. She can smell the disturbed earth and the humid jungle air. And she can still feel the fear seizing her heart, the ache in her lungs from running, the tears blinding her vision as she jumped over thick roots.

“I didn’t know where my master was leading me,” she admits in a guttural voice. “I just followed him. And then we . . . we came across our ARC troopers. They had surrounded us.” A weak smile flutters on her lips, and Din tilts his head at her. “I didn’t think I could take them out. Not after the years I’ve spent with them. But,” she huffs out a relieved chuckle, “they didn’t attack us.”

“But their chips . . . ?” he asks, confused.

“Were no match for their strong will,” she answers. “And since they didn’t really have that behavior, correction gene, they were able to make a choice. And they did. Even in the chaos, they refused to carry out Order 66. And they went looking for me and my master.”

Tears of joy from that moment resurface in Talia’s eyes. Before she can wipe them, they slide down her cheeks. Quickly, she uses the corner of her tunic’s long sleeves to mop them up. Although a smile forms on her mouth, she sniffs before turning away from her companion who is still watching her.

“Your squad,” he begins after a few moments. “They helped you escape.”

She should proudly answer, ‘Yes, they did,’ but her lips drop into a frown. Despite her best efforts, she is accosted by a maelstrom of emotions screeching at her like stringed instruments trapped in the tense process of being tuned. She wants to escape this conversation, and she is tempted to hide in Din’s sleeping compartment and curl into a ball. There is a reason why she has not spoken about Order 66, neither to Thea nor to Dacob. The pain from that day is still too fresh, too overwhelming, even after all this time. Why did she promise to tell Din whatever he wanted to know? Did she actually believe that nightmare, that horrible day when she felt a huge piece of her heart die, would not come back to haunt her?

 _“Let go,”_ she hears Zeb tell her through the Force. _“Listen to it. Allow it to calm you, young one.”_

“Yeah,” she blurts out before following her master’s instructions. “Yeah, they did help me escape. And it cost them their lives.”

Not being able to handle sitting anymore, Talia jolts to her feet and begins pacing in front of her silent companion. Why does the ship suddenly feel smaller? Is it just her, or are the walls closing in?

“I watched my friends get killed by their own brothers. Have you seen that before, Din Djarin?” she retorts, throwing a glance in his direction. “Have you seen your own people turn on each other without mercy? Because I did,” she answers before giving him a chance to reply.

She is now standing near the cockpit’s ladder. Without thinking, she grips its foot-bars, the cold metal freezing the blood in her veins.

“One by one, I saw them die.” Closing her eyes, she leans forward and presses her forehead against the ladder. “I felt their deaths like a knife to my heart,” she says, her vocal cords strained with grief. “I _felt_ the deaths of the Jedi across the galaxy. And I didn’t even know what it was that I was feeling. Not at first.”

As she opens her eyes, tears stream down her cheeks like icy rivers, and she does not even bother to wipe them away. The Force feels distant and has grown quiet because she has ignored it. But she needs to let it comfort her, so she sucks in a breath and unfolds her mind. The Force glides through her like the song of a flute, pushing everything, including Din, to the background. She needs to press forward—for her sake.

In a low, shaky voice, she says, “As we retreated further into the jungle, near the docking yard, I was so overwhelmed by the Force, by what was going on around me, that I didn’t pay attention while I was fighting.” Instinctively, she places a hand on her right side and straightens her posture just a little. “And Jax . . .” she whispers, briefly closing her eyes again. “He stepped in front of me, to protect me. He got killed, but I still got shot. And my lightsaber was damaged.”

“You were just a kid,” she hears a confused voice float to her ears. She is not sure who it came from, Din or her master. “How could they kill you? You were just twelve.”

“My age didn’t matter to the Clones,” she answers the ghost-like voice. “They were ordered to terminate all of the Jedi, Masters and Padawans alike.”

The coldness from the metal ladder has penetrated her body so much that Talia feels like an ice statue. Heavy with memories and sorrow, she allows herself to slump to the floor. With the ladder behind her, she sits down and pulls up her knees so she can wrap her arms around them.

“I was dying,” she confides to no one in particular. “The blaster shot was draining my life-force from my body. I could literally feel the loss of blood weakening me. My master . . . he picked me up and ran.”

While the memories of that day flash before her eyes, she narrates. Captain Shane, Chance, and Thirteen were the last ARC troopers of Lightning Squad left. Along with a handful of the Wookies, they had covered her and her master’s flight the best they could. After some time, the Force led Zeb to a place where they could hide and catch their breath. With evening approaching, her master had managed to heal her. But since he was not trained in that art, he was unable to heal her completely, just enough to put her out of danger.

“It drained him,” she remarks. “He was exhausted. I saw his hands were shaking. He wrapped up my side with strips of his robe. I was so scared, so confused. I didn’t understand what I was feeling.”

“What _did_ you feel?”

“A disturbance in the Force. That’s what Zeb called it. He said we were feeling the pain . . . the suffering . . . the deaths of all of our fellow Jedi. It was this devastating, cold, claustrophobic feeling that I couldn’t escape from.” She wipes away her tears and sniffs. “Zeb, I envied him. He was more experienced in the ways of the Force that he was able to handle it better than I could.”

After giving herself a moment to gather her bearings, Talia recounts that their small group did not have much time to rest once her master wrapped up her injury. The entire clone army stationed on Kashyyyk was after them, and their chances of escaping were growing thin with each passing hour.

“Why didn’t you just hide in the jungle?” Din asks her.

“Because Zeb knew the Clones would massacre the Wookies in their hunt to find us. We needed to get off planet—for their sakes.”

She explains that her master wanted the two of them to stow away on a cargo ship. Their ARC troopers would pose as regular Clones and protect the crate that Master and Apprentice would hide in. The plan was not too outlandish. They were all familiar with Clone protocol: once the cargo was inspected and scanned, no one would have any reason to check them again.

“The hard part,” she tells her companion, “was sneaking back into enemy territory without being caught. R6—”

“He was there?” Din interrupts, surprise in his tone.

Craning her neck so she can look at him, she finds that he had relocated during her narration. He is now sitting on the crate that she was on earlier. It is strange she did not hear or sense him move.

“He belonged to my master,” she says of R6. “He was assigned to the docks. He was our inside-man and got us access to the cargo. The ones already scanned,” she clarifies. “They were just waiting to be loaded up onto the transport ship. But we . . . well, we got caught.”

She turns her head away and stares in front of her at the closed doors of her companion’s arsenal. The scratches on its metal surface remind her of the ones in the crate that her master had put her in.

“Chance bought us some time,” she continues, her voice flat. The emotion from earlier seems to have drained her from everything, including her sorrow. “But my master knew our plan wasn’t going to work out. Not unless _he_ distracted the 112th himself.

“So, he got me inside a cargo box with holes in it so I could breathe. He told me to stay there, that R6 would look out for me on my trip to who knows where. He . . .” Suddenly, her throat feels tight for the umpteenth time today. She presses her lips together, to muffle the sob that wants to burst forth. “He told me not to be afraid. T-that I’ll see him again someday. I was too weak to protest, to get up and fight with him.”

Her vision is blurred with tears, and she is dragged back to that moment. She can see her master’s sad, brown eyes, can sense the lie he told her, can hear the pain in his baritone voice.

Taking in a quivering breath, she struggles to finish her story. “Before I knew it, he shut the box. And I watched him lure the 112th away from the dock. He made it look like I escaped in the jungle with the Wookies. His lightsaber kept deflecting the blaster fire. He moved so fast, faster than I’d ever seen him, but I could feel his exhaustion.”

Slowly blinking away more tears, she tells of the shot that tore through Shane’s calf muscle. As his body fell, he was bombarded with more firepower. When he landed on the jungle floor, he never got back up. Her heart ached for the Captain who had trusted her skill after their first mission on Virgillia 7. Breath had escaped her lungs when she watched Thirteen—dear Lucky Thirteen—push Zeb away from a grenade. Time slowed down as the Clone grabbed the device, pressed it close to his chest, and lodged it between himself and the ground. The explosion rocked everyone off their feet and even sent her master to the dirt.

“I thought he was dead,” she confesses. “But then, I saw his lightsaber through the smoke. He was still fighting. But he couldn’t take out everyone,” she sniffles, wiping away her tears. “By that point, he’d been grazed everywhere with shots, and it was too much for him.” She swallows a sob and sucks in a deep breath. “E-even after he f-fell, the Clones k-kept shooting at him. T-they knew h-how dangerous he c-could be. And t-they didn’t take any c-chances.”

Too overcome by that scene, a scene that she has watched play again and again in her nightmares, Talia wraps her arms around her knees tighter and buries her face in them.

 _“The Force will be with you, young one,”_ she remembers her master tell her. _“Always. Call on it, and it will help you.”_

So, she does. She steadies her breathing, her mother’s meditative tune whispering in the back of her mind. Reaching out to the Force, she can feel it mourning with her in an elegy. Her eyes are heavy with tears as its throbbing rhythm works in tandem with her wounded heart. She had lost so much that day— her master, her brothers, her future, her purpose. Anguish had mercilessly crashed into her without giving her a moment to recover. She is surprised she did not pass out from its onslaught.

As she laid in the cargo box, staring at her master’s unrecognizable body, she longed for years before the war. She ached to walk the columned halls of the Jedi Temple again. But her home was barred to her, under pain of death or torture. When she saw images of it on the HoloNet after returning to Onderon, the Temple’s towers on fire, its ziggurat stained with smoke, she had fallen to her knees as the memories of that ancient place literally burned up before her eyes.

Amidst her pain, Talia senses a presence beside her. It is compassionate and soothing. Reminding her of Zeb, she uses the Force to mentally touch it so she can wrap it around her like a blanket. She feels her body relax and even warm up. A sense of guilt emanates from the presence, which confuses her. Why would Zeb feel _that_ of all things?

“I’m sorry,” she hears someone whisper.

It takes a moment for her to realize that Din is the presence she feels, that Din is the one beside her. Instead of jumping out of her skin at the revelation like she normally would have, Talia just sags to her right. Her arm leans against his, and his left pauldron digs into her flesh. The curved edge of his Beskar is a little painful, but it sobers her up enough to pull her from her hiding place.

Wiping away her wet face with the back of her hand, she sniffles. Her eyes are studying their boots stationed next to each other as she murmurs, “In Zeb’s last moments, I felt him speak to me through the Force. He told me . . . he told me not to be afraid. And not to blame myself.”

“But you did,” Din remarks gently. “You still do.”

“Healing me drained him of energy,” she argues, glancing at him. She finds him looking at her. “He might’ve escaped; he might still be alive if he didn’t.”

“Do you actually think he could have lived with himself afterwards?” he asks. “Even if he managed to survive all that?”

“No,” she quietly admits. “But that reasoning didn’t help me cope like you’d think.” She drops her gaze back to the floor. A bittersweet feeling massages her heart as she says in a sad chuckle, “You know, with his last thought, he broke another rule in the Jedi Code. He . . . he told me loved me. He told me that I was his little girl and that he was proud of me.”

She inhales a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling. A headache from all her tears is starting to knock on her door, but she pushes it aside. The _Crest_ ’s cold air dries her wet face, freezing her cheeks like Galidraan’s chilly wind. Despite Din’s warm body next to hers, she shivers from the icy fingers of hyperspace seeping through the ship’s structure.

Closing her eyes, she takes this still moment to release her guilt, her sorrow, her regret. They have all haunted her for three decades, and it is long past time for her to break free from their dark shackles. Hiding her Jedi past, her powers—that had fueled her ghosts to keep on tormenting her. But with a youngling now in her path, one who may be as gifted as Master Yoda, she knows she has to move forward if she wants to set a good example for him. It is time for her to accept what her life is, to let go of what was, and to have faith in what will be.

“So, you stowed away from Kashyyyk,” Din’s voice breaks into her thoughts.

 _Even if what will be has led me to him,_ she tells herself.

Talia opens her eyes and casts a glance his way. With a half-smile, she answers, “Yes. I healed myself the best I could in my crate. But I ended up passing out for two days afterwards.”

“And you still do that,” he remarks.

Her smile grows a millimeter bigger. “Oh, I’ve gotten better at it. When I’m tired or don’t have enough strength in me, _that’s_ when I pass out.”

“What’d the droid do in the meantime?” he asks, and she wants to shake her head at the suspicion in his tone. Even after knowing that R6 is not a killing machine, he still cannot look at her astromech without tensing up. But then, R6’s snappy attitude is doing nothing to placate Din’s initial dislike of him. Talia makes a mental note to give her sassy droid a firm talking to when she sees him.

“R6 got me some food, water, and medical supplies,” she answers. “Stuff like bandages and painkillers. But no Bacta. That was restricted, and it would’ve looked unusual if he got some for me.”

The time she spent cooped up in her cargo box would not have been so bad if she was not injured. And if she was not still scared for her life. So, instead of going into detail, she gives her companion a short summary, explaining that R6 managed to keep her crate from being checked. The Clones’ battle cruiser that they had both been loaded onto took them to several planets across the Mid and Outer Rims. Unfortunately, the ship never stayed in one place for too long. It was either a gift or a curse that the cruiser made a twenty-four hour stop on Tatooine.

“R6 arranged for my box to get sent onto the surface,” she reveals. “After the ship left, he got me out. But we were stranded in Mos Espa for weeks.”

“And that’s why you hate Tatooine,” Din points out.

“I’m not supposed to hate. That’s not the Jedi way,” she insists. “But . . . I kind of made an exception with Tatooine.” She ignores the smug scoff that drifts from underneath his helmet. “R6 and I had to earn passage from a smuggler back to Onderon. She took so many side-stops on the way. I finally got home six months after the war ended.”

“Why Onderon?” he wonders. “That’s in the Inner Rim. Wouldn’t that be the first place where people would look for you?”

“I took up my father’s surname again,” she shares. “And since he and my great-grandfather were the only ones left who knew that I’d been training as a Jedi, people didn’t really bat an eyelash when I came home.

“The main thing that worried me,” she confides, “was that the Jedi Temple had records of every Master, Knight, and Padawan. There was a chance the Empire might connect the dots. But a few years later, someone broke into the Temple and erased all of the Padawans’ names from their records. The HoloNet was buzzing with the story for weeks.”

“So, your identity was safe,” he muses aloud.

“And I heard the 112th Legion was sent to the Outer Rim indefinitely. No one from there would’ve heard about me. I stayed away from public notice until the Emperor discontinued the Clones.”

“But the Onderonians were afraid of you,” he reminds her. “They had to have known you were different.”

“They did. But Onderonians won’t betray their own.”

“And neither would Mandos.”

“Which allowed me to hide in plain sight,” she finishes. “And whenever an Inquisitor came around, I would use the Force to hide myself.”

Din gives her a double-take, his silver helmet bouncing off the lights, and she wonders what his expression is underneath. “You used the Force to hide the Force?” he slowly asks in a confused tone, which makes her hide a smile. “Isn’t that countermining it? How’s that possible?”

“It’s hard to explain,” she begins, “but it’s very possible—trust me. My master taught me at a young age. I wasn’t very good at it, but I had to master it if I wanted to survive. And I have.”

He nods, but she has a feeling he does not believe this Force ability—which she does not blame him for. After all, _she_ had taken some convincing that such a thing was real when Zeb was trying to teach her.

“What you heard about me on Onderon,” she quietly adds. “It’s all true. You now know my greatest secret. And my most vulnerable side. I’m sorry you had to see me like this. It’s . . . it’s hard to talk about. But it’s helped me,” she says, hoping he notices how sincere she is. Already her heart feels lighter than ever. “I haven’t told anyone what happened on Kashyyyk. Not in great detail. No one could understand what I’ve gone through.”

“Not many people would,” he replies.

“But you do,” she whispers, and she can feel his body tense beside her.

When he tilts his head at her, she moves to sit in front of him. After crossing her legs, she stares at his visor so intently that she can see her reflection in it.

“You of all people can relate,” she tells him. “You lost your family—both of them. And so did I. I felt their losses like a wound in the Force.

“You wanted to know why I hid my secret from you for so long. I’ve told you what happened when the Empire murdered the Jedi— _my people_. That day has haunted me ever since.” She places a hand on her right side, where her blaster wound had been. “I’m constantly reminded of its scar.

“Sometimes I can hear the Jedi’s cries in my nightmares. I can _feel_ my master take his last breath. I’ve had to hide my entire life,” she defends, her accent as hard as steel. “I _had_ to overcome my fear; I _had_ to be wary of every person I met. So, tell me, Din Djarin: can you now see why it was so hard for me to tell you?”

A breath passes from her lips. Then a second. She refuses to drop her eyes from his visor. A third breath releases into the air, yet Din says nothing. He just stares at her, and she feels her heart squeeze.

* * *

Jedi Master Zebedee Asher:

Lightning Squad / Alpha-class ARC Troopers / Talia's Sterling Seven:

While writing most of this chapter, I listened to "Star Wars: Rebels - Sabin Wren's Suite" by Kevin Kiner on a loop. Check out this hauntingly beautiful, tragic, and enduring score: <https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ua2c0NLWHWA>


	25. This is the Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, final chapter. I'm relieved yet sad that "Helmet of Honor" is now complete.
> 
> First of all, I want to thank Anne, Deniss, MiJo71, TheHuffliestPuff, and tuneskootch for taking the time to drop a comment while I was writing Part 3. I am always excited whenever I receive a notification that someone left me one.
> 
> And second, I also want to thank AlexandriteTheGreat, bromple, DayDreamer300, Deniss, DrowsyMaggie, Eirdaru, Huzar90, Mandalore22, MiJo71, nightblooded, Pinke289, PrincessCobra, Sai_Eri, Summerbluegreen, TheHuffliestPuff, tuneskootch, and the 27 guests (you know who you are!) who left Kudos. I greatly appreciate your support!
> 
> Now, without further ado....

Chapter XXV: This is the Way

“So, tell me, Din Djarin,” Talia says to him in an almost challenging tone, “can you now see why it was so hard for me to tell you?”

Time freezes for him and melts like snow in the springtime. He can feel every millisecond slowly tick by as his thoughts run wild, reviewing at the speed of light the beginning of her story to the end.

To say that he had not been expecting such a heart-wrenching, raw, desolate testimony from her is an understatement as vast as the oceans on Shimia. He felt her pain banging inside his ribcage so hard he is surprised his chest-plate had not rattled. Her choked up accent tore through his ears, making them bleed with sympathy. Seeing grief literally spill down her cheeks had almost been too much for him to bear. He wanted to turn away, to shift in his seat, to escape to his cockpit, but he could not leave her here, not in this fragile state. Something foreign, new, yet warm had stirred in his chest, urging him to wrap an arm around her shoulders and tell her . . . well, tell her something comforting.

But all he could do, all he could offer, was his company. His natural instinct had protested at the notion of purposefully sitting next to another person as a sign of consolation, yet his feet marched him towards her. He allowed his compassion and concern for her to relax him. When he sat beside her, he had been surprised at how cold her body was, and he felt guilty for forcing her to summon the ghosts of her past. He had cursed his Mandalorian stubbornness for bullying her into breaking down her walls, thus exposing the twelve-year-old who blames herself for her master’s death. He saw himself in her watery brown eyes: an orphan struggling to endure the horrors of war. Like him, she is a broken foundling still battling with the phantoms of her tragic childhood.

He thought he has witnessed Talia become emotional before this. It was when she had been in her room at Dewan Manor, mourning Zeb. But after today, he now realizes she was not just lamenting her mentor’s death. Lightning Squad and the ultimate sacrifices her Clone brothers made to protect her, the Jedi slaughtered across the galaxy, the 112th Legion’s cold instructions to execute her people, the fatherly love from her beloved master severed by Death’s unfair bidding, her blossoming life as a Jedi—she had been grieving all of it. And she still does. How could anyone survive this trauma? No wonder she had locked herself in her room on the anniversary of Order 66: she had been crippled with anguish.

Despite his resolve not to trust her again, his wounded pride, his frustration at her secrets, he finds himself forgiving her. He understands her reasons, her heartache—he understands _her_. And he is convinced that she, in all her selflessness and benevolence, is the best person to teach his adoptive son. Whether his pride likes it or not, he needs her to help him raise his Force-sensitive child. It is no coincidence the three of them have stumbled across one another. They are a trio of foundlings alone in this galaxy, starved for affection and hunted by enemies at some point in their dismal lives.

His gaze focuses on the woman sitting in front of him. She is staring at him with so much attention that it feels as if she can see past his Beskar to his own damaged soul, reconnecting them in the bond that tied them together since they met on Cholganna. Time slows every move she makes—each breath, each blink, each quiver on her tired expression. He studies her dark brown eyes, noticing that her lashes are still damp with tears. Her cheeks look freshly dried, yet he can spy remnants of their grief-driven tracks across her tanned face.

The thin braid Talia had been fingering earlier is hanging over her shoulder while the rest of her hair is flowing down her back in glossy waves. Though the gray outer tunic wrapped around her hides a slim figure, he knows how powerful her petite body can be when she uses the Force, allowing her to make high jumps and effortless landings. She has scars of a blaster shot and vibroblades decorating her abdomen, yet he knows they are not as deep as the emotional ones that she has been carrying for thirty years.

He will ignore his hurt, for it no longer matters. He will accept her offer to train his son. He will grant her permission to stay in the little one’s life. Including his own. The Angel of Onderon will now be his son’s guardian angel for as long as Fate allows.

 _This is the way,_ his Armorer whispers to him.

“I understand,” he says, his gravelly voice quieter than normal. He watches Talia hold her breath, and her eyes are hesitant to believe him. “I really do,” he insists. “I . . . I shouldn’t have been so hard on you. Your life has been _haran_ * as much as mine. And between the two of us, I think you have more of a right to keep things hidden than I do.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: HAH-rahn; translation: “hell”; meaning: literally, destruction)_

When his words register, Talia releases a quiet sigh. Then, her dark pink lips gradually form into a smile. It is gentle and far too sympathetic than he deserves, and he feels like a complete _or’dinii_ * for the way he has acted and treated her, especially yesterday.

_(*pronounced: Ohr-DEE-nee; translation: “moron, fool”)_

“So,” she breathes, her elegant accent as smooth as always, “I convinced you, _ner burc’ya_ *.” The old term of friendship makes the corner of his mouth lift up into a half-smile. After he gives her a nod, which resembles a slight bow, she quietly says, “I thought you said forgiveness wasn’t important.”

_(*pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

Din grimaces at the reminder, and he wants to squirm where he is sitting on the cold floor. “Well, I’m giving it to you anyways,” he answers, hating how gruff he sounds. Yet, judging by the shine in Talia’s eyes, she does not seem to notice. In fact, her smile grows a centimeter bigger.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For forgiving me. And for believing me.”

“I should thank _you_ ,” he admits. His eyes stray over her head so he can avoid her sincere gaze. “For trusting me with this. And for putting up with me.” The back of his neck warms up, and he needs to move before the heat engulfs the rest of his body. So, he shuffles himself to his feet then extends a gloved hand to his friend. “You’ve been sitting down here for too long,” he offers, jerking his head to the cockpit in a silent invitation for her to join him.

Talia reaches for his hand. Her slim fingers are cold and feel so delicate compared to his. Gently, he helps her rise from the floor. When she stands before him, he is about to release her, but she tightens her hold on him, stopping him from letting her go. Though he prevents himself from wiggling his hand free, he angles his head at her, curious as to what she means by this.

“You do know that I haven’t told you every single detail, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, I get it.”

“I promised to tell you the truth for as long as I know you,” she reminds him. “But there will be things that come up that I know about but haven’t said.”

He nods at her. “I’m sure. But I can’t promise not to throw your secrets back at you if we get into another disagreement,” he warns, hoping she does not see this as a threat.

“I understand.” She releases his hand, and he can feel her fingers slowly slide across his. He watches her cheeks color with pink as she brushes away invisible wrinkles on her outer tunic. “I’m a mess,” she apologizes with an embarrassed chuckle. Muttering, she adds, “In more ways than one.”

“Same here,” he comments. When she glances at him, he shrugs. “This,” he gestures to both of them, “is who we are, Talia: a product of war and loss.”

“True,” she murmurs, her eyes surveying him with an emotion he does not recognize. “I told you the Force led me to the youngling and to you. But I didn’t tell you that I had a vision of you five years ago.”

He jerks at the revelation. “Of _me_?”

“Well, of a Mandalorian,” she corrects with a soft smile. “I was meditating on the night we received news of the Emperor’s death at Endor. While I was centering my thoughts, I suddenly found myself facing the sun. It was sitting on the horizon, and I couldn’t tell if it was rising or setting. It was almost blinding,” she admits. “But then, I saw a silhouette. It was walking towards me. And I recognized the helmet and armor as Mandalorian.”

“ _My_ armor?” he wonders, his voice sounding as skeptical as he feels right now. Confusion and reservation fill him as he watches Talia’s gaze roam across his visor. He can see so much awareness and interest in her eyes that they nearly make him fidget.

“A man’s armor,” she answers. “When he stopped in front of me, I could feel the Force coming from him. But before I could say anything, he nodded at something over his shoulder. That was when I realized the Force was coming from _behind_ him.

“I was about to move around him so I could see, but he stopped me. And I knew I had to get through him first. But I didn’t sense any hostility from him, just caution.” She pauses, which gives him a moment to try to wrap this Force-foresight around his brain. Yet she continues a heartbeat later, saying, “I’ve been waiting for a Mandalorian to come into my life, with the Force trailing behind him. But it’s been over half a decade. I actually forgot about my vision—until I met you on Cholganna. That’s when I realized _you_ were the one that I was supposed to meet. You were the Mandalorian protecting a Force-sensitive.”

“And you had to deal with me first,” he supplies. “And do what? Fight me?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t know. For the longest time I didn’t.”

“And now?”

“Now . . .” She takes in a deep breath. “I see that I just had to convince you,” she replies with a knowing smile, reminding him of his earlier request.

The idea of a vision from the Force, the knowledge that Talia had seen their meeting years ago, the realization that he was right in believing their paths had intercepted for a reason—all of it stuns him. Reason tells him this is impossible, but the past twenty-four hours have defied the impossible.

He retreats a step and finds his back pressed up against the cockpit’s ladder. The temperature inside his helmet is more humid than normal, and there is a strange feeling hovering in the air. Is that this Force she claims she can sense and hear? Because, though bizarre, it is both comforting and tranquil—and he has no clue what to make of it. Thankfully, Talia does not close the distance between them. He would probably scramble up the ladder if she did.

“This is a lot to handle,” he blurts out, clearing his throat. “I need to, uh, think about this.” When she sends him an understanding nod, he stops himself from sighing in relief.

“I need to rest,” she tells him, side-stepping away from him and soundlessly walking deeper into the heart of his ship. “I’m exhausted.”

“Take my cot,” he offers as he turns around to face the ladder. Gripping its foot-bars, he adds, “I’m going to check our route to Shimia.” He ascends to his cockpit before she has time to reply.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Three hours later . . ._

“Can I come up?” he hears Talia call out from the main compartment.

“Sure,” he replies, swiveling his pilot’s chair around so he can see her.

When she enters the cockpit, he notices that she looks refreshed and her normal self again. He has not quit the room since he left her to rest—but it was so he could deliberate on everything she had revealed to him.

“How long till we reach Shimia?” she asks, her polished accent polite. She slides onto her designated chair, off to his immediate right.

“Less than two hours,” he answers. “Feeling better?”

“Much.”

“I want to know something,” he begins. When she nods for him to continue, he says, “Back on Cholganna, you said your master knew someone who looked like the kid.”

“His name was Yoda,” she tells him before he could voice his question. “He was the Grand Master of the Jedi Order.”

“Tell me about him,” he requests. He remembers she mentioned this Yoda while she shared her Jedi past with him earlier, but she had not gone into detail.

“He was wise, strong in the Force,” she lists off, “compassionate, rational, old. He never acted like he knew everything. And he trained all of the younglings at some point—including me. I could tell doing that was one of his favorite duties at the Temple. And he was so powerful, despite his small size.” She smiles to herself as if re-living a fond memory. “And he had an unusual habit of talking backwards.”

Din blinks at her. “Talking backwards?”

A bigger smile spreads across her lips. “Yes,” she chuckles. “Some of us couldn’t help but imitate how he talked.” She glances at the ceiling for a moment before saying, “‘Your feelings, you must search.’ Or, ‘Conflict, there is in you. Quiet your mind, you should.’”

“How about,” Din offers, “‘Special, the kid is’?”

Talia quietly laughs with approval shining in her dark eyes. “Yes, you’re catching on.”

“The kid won’t talk like that, will he?” he double-checks.

“Not unless he’s taught to.”

“Well, don’t give him any ideas,” he mutters. “What else can you tell me about Yoda? Like, which planet did he come from? Where are the rest of his species?” When Talia’s smile falters, he slumps into his chair, disappointed.

“He didn’t talk about his homeworld or much of his past. I’m sorry, Din. Master Yoda was all mystery and wisdom. One time,” she recalls, “I did ask which planet he called home because I boasted about coming from Onderon.”

“And what’d he say?”

“‘Planets—matter not, do they,’” she quotes. “‘The galaxy and the Force, came I from. Just like you, youngling.’ And then he chuckled as if he knew his answer was vague.”

Din crosses his arms, frustrated that he hit a dead end. His Armorer charged him with reuniting the baby with his people. Until he can do so, the little one is his to protect and care for. While he left Nevarro, he had hoped Talia could shed more light on the baby’s gift—which she has. But since this afternoon, he remembered that she knew of someone from the little one’s species, so he once again hoped she could tell him more. Yet, she is in the dark about Yoda and his kind as much as he is—and to think that she met him!

“I told you what my Armorer said I had to do for the kid,” he mentions, and she gives him a nod. “And after knowing you’re a Jedi, I’m starting to wonder if it isn’t his species that I need to find but the group of people he belongs with. I know the Jedi are gone,” he continues before she can interrupt. “And now you’re telling me you don’t know much about his species. So, should I try to find them? Or should I find more Force-sensitives like you?”

The questions float between them like smoke, obscuring the direction they need to take. He has no idea where to start with either option, but maybe Talia will remember something from her past.

“I hope you’re not implying that I should re-start the Jedi Order,” she begins. “Because that’s kind of hap—”

“But you _do_ know other people with the Force,” he interrupts. “You saved some from Mustafar. Ryk’ken told me about that mission. He said you helped a lot of them relocate to a safe place.”

“I sent them to hiding places,” she corrects. “I gave them a list of planets in the Outer Rim where the Empire’s presence wasn’t heavy. They’ve probably left. It’s been five years since the Empire fell.”

“And you don’t stay in touch?” he queries.

“I couldn’t. For their safety. And mine,” she softly answers.

Din stares at the ceiling. If the Force can lead him to Talia, then could it not lead them to the baby’s people?

“One of the Rebel fighters,” he hears Talia say, “Luke Skywalker, is a Jedi.” At this, he looks at her, intrigued. “I’ve been keeping tabs on him. Especially on what he’s been doing since the Battle of Endor. He’s trying to rebuild the Jedi Order, on Yavin IV.”

“Why haven’t you joined him?” he wonders.

“Because I don’t feel that I’d belong there. I believe my path lies elsewhere,” she replies. The phrase ‘with you and the baby’ lingers in her gaze, and he shifts his eyes to her chair’s headrest.

“Should I send the kid to this guy?” he asks, even though he dislikes the thought of surrendering the little one to a stranger.

“Maybe,” she murmurs. “As a last resort. But I have a feeling he’ll find his way there eventually.”

He studies her. “Is that feeling Force-related?”

“It is. And I’ve been told he will be a gift to the next generation of Jedi,” she shares with a tiny smile.

“And you’ve been told this by the Force?” he queries. He cannot believe his life has come to discussing about an invisible, complicated entity that can do remarkable yet worrying things.

“In a way.”

The evasiveness in her answer and the reluctance in her tone catches his attention. Thinking that they had put mystery and disguise behind them, he tilts his head at her. She is staring at the hyperspace tunnel behind him; her eyes are squinting as if she is seeing something in the distance.

When she continues to remain silent, he opens his mouth to press her for more information, but she turns to him and suggests, “Why don’t we try to find the youngling’s species? I have a few ideas where we could look.”

He rolls over the proposition in his head. That _is_ what he had been originally appointed to do, right? Talia’s inklings are better than none, and maybe, between the two of them, they can solve this mystery. Besides, he prefers this course of action rather than entrusting his adoptive son to someone he has never met before.

“What kind of ideas?” he asks.

“Well, for starters,” she proposes, “where’d you find Vandar?”

“Arvala-7.”

“ _Where_ on Arvala-7?”

“In a compound,” he answers.

At her encouraging nod, he then explains how he tracked down the child. He mentions the Niktos who were protecting the miniature fortification, his run-in and brief team-up with IG-11 (before the droid was re-programmed by Kuiil), and the main building where the child’s cradle was.

“Are you sure the Niktos were mercenaries?” Talia inquires after his explanation. Her brow is furrowed a little. “Or were they traders or smugglers?”

“They had weapons. That’s the only thing that mattered at the time,” he explains. “And they killed every bounty hunter that came looking for the kid.”

“Why did they have Vandar?” she brainstorms. “Were they protecting him? Or were they holding him hostage?” Before he can reply, she keeps on going with more questions. “Did they know he was a Force-sensitive? Were they hired to keep him there? If so, by who? Or if not, did they believe he was really special for some reason?” She eyes him carefully. “Did you check to see if there was a computer terminal there? Were there records of shipments or journals? You said the cradle was hiding with other things. Were the Niktos aware of the fact that Vandar was even there?”

“I don’t know,” he cuts in, wincing at how snappish he sounds. But he does not like being forced to realize that maybe he should have done some investigating on his own before he returned to Kuiil. “The kid was in the compound, and the Niktos were in my way,” he defends. “I got rid of them with IG, found the kid, and left. That’s it, Talia.”

“So, we need to go to Arvala-7,” she announces. “Maybe we can find answers there. And maybe the Force will show me something. It’s worth a try.”

“And if there’s nothing there?” he asks.

“Then I’ll meditate on our next move.”

He feels a frown appear on his lips. That is not exactly an answer he can rely on. “What if the Force doesn’t show you what to do?”

“Then we’ll go to Kashyyyk.”

“Why there?” he demands, confused.

She flashes him a knowing smile. “Master Yoda went to Kashyyyk during the Clone War for a reason, _ner burc’ya_ *. It was because he was close to the Wookies,” she reveals, her eyes twinkling. “And since their people can live hundreds of years, too, perhaps some can tell us more about Yoda’s past.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha)_

“What if we can’t find Wookies who knew him? The Empire exported them as slaves across the galaxy.”

“You’re not being very optimistic,” she observes with a quirked eyebrow.

“I’m being realistic,” he states in a flat tone.

When she crosses her arms, he knows she does not believe him. But instead of challenging him, she says, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, we should set a course for Aravla-7.”

“Now?” he asks with wide eyes. “What about the kid? We’re supposed to rendezvous with them on Shimia in two hours.”

“I can contact R6 and have him meet us there.”

“But my kid needs someone to watch him. Not a droid,” he argues.

“R6 can take care of the youngling,” she insists, pulling out her Imagecaster. Before he can reject her idea, she is already hailing her ship. When a hologram of the astromech emerges from her hand-held device, she instructs, “R6, I want a status on the youngling, please.”

The bucket of bolts whistles and beeps, and inside Din’s helmet, he reads: _“Master Vandar has again been exploring the ship for the past hour. He did that yesterday. And I have activated P-1 to watch him both times.”_

“And has P-1 been able to handle him?”

“Who’s P-1?” Din all but demands. How many machines does this woman own? And why does she trust them so much?

“He’s a Pit Droid,” she explains. “He acts as my mechanic, janitor, handyman, and jack-of-all-traits.”

“I didn’t hear ‘babysitter’ in that list,” he sternly points out.

“P-1 is a very capable droid,” Talia claims. “Trust me. And he’s very sweet, too. R6, has P-1 been able to take care Vandar efficiently?”

 _“Yes, Master Dewan,”_ the tin-can whirs. _“P-1 has made sure Master Vandar is being fed and entertained. He even warmed him up a bowl of stew for his afternoon meal seventy-two minutes ago. It was a stew Solaria had frozen for you.”_

Talia glances at Din. “They’re fine,” she calmly assures him, but he grimaces underneath his helmet.

“Fine,” he mutters, swiveling his chair around so he can face his navigation computer and alter their destination.

Behind him he hears Talia continue to speak with her droid. “R6, there’s been a change in plans. I want you to meet us on Arvala-7. I’ll have the coordinates and a new rendezvous point sent to you. Understood?”

 _“Yes, Master Dewan,”_ the metal nuisance twitters and beeps. _“I calculate we should reach that System by tomorrow morning.”_

“Very good. Keep on watching Vandar for us, okay?”

Silence fills the cockpit as Din relays the designated information to the _Alabaster Star_. All he can hear is the _Crest_ ’s engines humming, and it is soon joined by the shuffling of boots. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds Talia standing next to him, her eyes scanning the nav-computer.

“Are you sure about heading to Arvala-7?” he wonders. If he is being honest with himself, he is not enthusiastic about returning to Kuiil’s homestead without him.

“Well, it sounds like a reasonable choice to me,” she replies. Her gaze moves to his visor. “Don’t you think?”

It _is_ a smart move, but he still feels guilty for convincing Kuiil to help him with his problems with the Bounty Hunter Guild. The kind Ugnaught should have just stayed behind and enjoyed the rest of his life in peace. He deserved better than to die on a wasteland planet like Nevarro. Yet, there is nothing he can do to fix what had happened.

He gives Talia a reluctant nod and slips the _Crest_ out of hyperspace so he can modify their coordinates. As his gloved fingers fly across the panel, he wonders what they will find on Arvala-7. Something tells him that searching for the baby’s species will not be an easy task—nothing in life ever is. He, Talia, and his adoptive son are proof of that. But they have fought to move forward despite the hardships and the pain and the losses that had been thrown their way.

 _But the compound’s empty,_ he convinces himself. _And that area should be deserted._ Then there is the fact that he is a trained fighter. Plus, he also has a Jedi who wields a lightsaber traveling with him. So, with Talia’s Force abilities and his excellent marksmanship, they are definitely a power to be reckoned with. _What could go wrong?_ he wonders confidently, and he can feel his chest expand.

His computer beeps, notifying him that it has calculated the fastest route for them reach their new destination. With a quick look at Talia, who is still standing beside his pilot’s chair, he asks, “You up for Arvala-7?”

Her shoulders straighten before she nods at him. “I am ready,” she quotes Clan Kex’s maxim. He can hear strength in her voice and watches as determination chisels onto her diamond-shaped face. But soon, her expression softens as she looks at his visor and queries, “How about you? I feel this search will lead us down a long, and even frustrating, path. Are _you_ prepared for this?”

Though she will never see it, he sends her a half-smile. “This is the way,” he tells her before easing the _Crest_ back into hyperspace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you all think? Let me know in the comments!
> 
> Now that I've revealed that Talia has been a Force-sensitive and Jedi from the very beginning, if any of you are curious, go back and re-read Parts 1, 2, and 3--I've left subtle hints (at least, I hope they were subtle, Lol) of it. Since Mando doesn't know about either of those things, they would not register in his head. But with us "Star Wars" fans, we can recognize them. :)
> 
> I'm planning to write a brief summary/outline of what would have happened if Talia went with Mando and the baby to Nevarro--the idea still won't go away. Though I'm extremely pleased with my decision to pull her out of the story, a part of me can't let go of the alternate path that I could have taken. I don't know WHEN I'll post it, but I'll WILL do it as a bonus chapter for "Helmet of Honor." Keep an eye out for "HoH" to be updated with a 26th chapter.
> 
> With the first episode of "The Mandalorian - Season 2" being released tomorrow (10/30), I'm not sure if I'll continue to write while it's running. I'm curious to see where Mando's going, who he'll be meeting, and what his next move is. I had come up with my own general story outline for a "Season 2" of my series, yet since I planned it after Season 1 ended last December, I would naturally be taking a different route. I guess I'm debating if I should continue with what I have planned or wait, watch all of S2, and maybe work around it like I did for S1. And another thing that makes me hesitant is, if I do continue with my story and not really include S2's events, that I may be loosing the interest of readers who more than likely will want to read stories revolving around S2.
> 
> So, yes. I'm not sure of what to do just yet. But I DO know that I will have to write more on Mando and the baby because it's been so wonderful--just as you, dear readers, have been so wonderful. "My Weapon, My Religion" has reached over 3,200 hits while "HoH" is approaching 1,200. Thank you all, commentators and silent admirers alike, for giving my "Mandalorian Legacy" a chance! Ret'urcye mhi*!
> 
> (*pronounced: ray-TOOR-shay-MEE; meaning: "Goodbye"; literal translation: "Maybe we'll meet again" -- Me: but I KNOW we'll meet again)


	26. What If? (Bonus, AU Chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write and post this up. But here it is!

(Bonus) Chapter XXVI:

Alternate Version

******WARNING: DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU HAVE READ ALL OF PART 3******

** Author’s Opening Note: **

I said I wanted to share a summary/outline of what would have happened if Talia went with Mando and the baby to Nevarro. The idea is one that keeps on bouncing in my head, and I need to let it out. As I’ve said before in one of my author’s notes, it is “a dream that I can look at fondly yet not think about too deeply.”

However, I’ve been advised that such an explanation may ruin the “magical effect” (an advisor’s words) of what I’ve already written, with Talia leaving, the revelation of her Force powers, Mando’s feeling of betrayal, her tragic past, their reconciliation, etc. If you feel the same, then read no further and simply enjoy the result of my decision to pull Talia out from Mando and the baby’s lives during “The Reckoning” and “Redemption” from Season 1.

Yet if you’re just curious, stick around and imagine with me a “what could have been” for the next several minutes. This alternate version is not detailed with description, smooth dialogue, and other factors that give a story its muscle. It’s a skeleton—one that’s been rattling in my brain’s closet since last December (2019). You will hear a lot of “like the show” or “just like what happened in the show” throughout. I’ve inserted my notes _(which will be italicized)_ so you all can see my thinking process and my intentions, and I will continue writing in the present tense.

Though I still stand by my decision to temporarily remove Talia during the last two episodes of S1, I hope that, when you reach the end of this bonus chapter, you would have found this outline to be interesting, like a passing fancy to enjoy yet not take too seriously.

** Alternate Version Outline: **

In Chapter XIX: “ _Ret’urcye Mhi_ ” from _Helmet of Honor_ , Talia was about to tell Mando something, but she got interrupted by a call from R6-D12. _(She was actually going to admit that she was a Force-sensitive and a Jedi.)_ Instead of the recorded message coming from R6, it would have been from Greef Karga. Mando and Talia would listen to it together.

Afterwards, they both agree it is a trap. While Talia thinks the message should be ignored, Mando considers it, arguing that he is tired of running and being hunted. He wants to deal with the people after him and the child once and for all. Talia eventually becomes convinced and asks him what he has in mind.

Mando realizes they need help. He considers Talia a warrior and will need her skill-set, meaning they have to get someone else look out for Vandar. So, he sets a route for Arvala-7, believing Kuiil could temporarily take over Talia’s babysitting duties.

On Arvala-7, Kuiil is introduced to Talia. _(“And who is this pretty lady with you, Mando?”)_ Talia is kind and courteous to the Ugnaught, who shows her his Blurgs. He has one in his corral, his most recent catch. He mentions he needs to tame it, and within seconds, Talia is in the corral approaching the Blurg. Mando watches, smirking behind his helmet because he thinks she will have a hard time connecting with the beast like he did. He sees Talia shush the Blurg and reach out a hand to it. The Blurg eventually closes the distance between them and allows Talia to pet it. _(Talia used the Force to bond with the beast.)_ Mando is surprised by how quickly she got it to trust her, but then he remembers that Talia is a beast master on Onderon. He just hasn’t seen evidence of it until now.

Beside him, Kuiil comments on how good her skills are with the Blurg. _(“What a fine gift she has.”)_ He asks where she’s from, and Mando says Onderon. Kuiil admits he knows that planet and now sees why she is able to tame the Blurg.

Kuiil then invites the trio inside his home. After exchanging pleasantries, Mando asks him to help them out with their problem. IG-11 enters the house, all re-programmed. Mando reacts like he did in the show, cautious and ready to shoot the assassin droid. Talia almost reacts the same as he because his quick reflexes prompt her to, but she recovers faster than he does after Kuiil explains how he re-programmed IG.

Kuiil says he is getting too old to become involved with Imperial entanglements and asks for Mando’s pardon. He then gifts the trio with IG’s help instead of his, claiming that a nursemaid function can be easily added to the droid’s programming. Naturally, Mando is about to refuse, but Talia interrupts him, asking if he can step outside with her for a moment.

Mando, not happy with the way things are going so far, marches out of Kuiil’s house. The baby is in his arms. Talia says Mando can’t reject Kuiil’s gift because that is rude, even if the gift itself isn’t something Mando wants. They argue about this for a little bit, but Mando begrudgingly agrees with her. Kuiil is his friend, and he doesn’t want to insult him. But he tells Talia that he doesn’t trust IG, re-programmed or not. So, she volunteers to keep an eye on him. She reminds him that once they deal with the people on Nevarro, they can come back to Kuiil and return his gift to him. So, Mando accepts IG from Kuiil.

The sun has set, and it’s dark by now. The baby and Talia are exhausted, so Mando decides to have them stay for the night. He and Kuiil chat, and he asks the Ugnaught if he could make the baby a cradle for their mission. Kuiil readily accepts the task. By morning, the cradle is done, and they all—except for Kuiil—leave Arvala-7.

Mando tries to figure out what their next move should be. Since he doesn’t trust IG with the baby, he refuses to have it be Vandar’s nursemaid. That means Talia has been moved back to being babysitter. IG is a fighter, yet Mando won’t allow it to have a weapon. He is a warrior short, and he thinks about Cara Dune. So, he sets a course for Sorgan, hoping that she is still there.

When they arrive, Talia suggests she stay on the ship with IG and Vandar while he recruits Cara. _(“But don’t forget to mention you’re not alone anymore.”)_ He agrees and finds the ex-Shock trooper like he did in the show.

After her fight, they exchange pleasantries. She notices the baby isn’t with him, and he explains the baby is safe for the time being. She then remarks that he didn’t ask if she went back to the village they helped. Mando’s thoughts drift to Omera and Winta, then to Caben and Stoke. But he doesn’t say anything, which prompts Cara to talk about the villagers anyways. She mentions the small settlement is doing well, no more raiders. Winta has grown a little and still misses the baby. Caben and Stoke have taken it upon themselves to be the village’s scouts and security. Omera is fine; she asked if Cara has heard from him. Obviously, the widow still has a soft spot for him, which makes Mando’s neck heat up.

He says he’s glad they’re all doing well, but that isn’t why he’s here. He tries to recruit Cara like in the show and wins her over. They head back to his ship.

On the way, he explains that he didn’t come alone. He mentions IG and how he got stuck with it. Then, he says he has a friend with him, too. That sparks Cara’s interest, and she asks if it’s his female Mandalorian friend that he’d been touchy about the last time he was on Sorgan. He nods. Cara smirks and wants to know everything about her. He says she’ll find out for herself but mentions his friend has been acting as the baby’s nanny. He trusts her and vouches for her fighting abilities.

When they reach the _Crest_ , IG is walking the perimeter. Talia, her back to them, is watching Vandar chase some kind of squirrel. Mando introduces the women.

M (Mando): Cara, this is Tal.

T (Talia, extending a hand for a shake): It’s a pleasure to meet you.

C (Cara, eyeing her up and down while accepting the shake): Likewise.

T: Mando’s told me about you.

C (glancing at him): Really? I’m sorry I can’t say the same thing. He’s been pretty tight-lipped about you.

T (smiles): Sounds just like him. He’s told me that you used to be with the Rebellion.

C: Yeah. Shock-trooper.

T: I know. I’ve worked with lots of Droppers before.

C: You were with the Rebellion?

T: On and off. When I could.

The women become close-knit in a matter of seconds, chatting about their missions and if they knew so-and-so. Mando just watches, dumbstruck, at how easily they seem to be getting along. Talia starts becoming animated, along with Cara, as they swap stories and past experiences.

He clears his throat, interrupting them. _(“We’ve got places to be you know.”)_ Talia picks up Vandar and heads for his ship with IG right behind her. Mando and Cara bring up the rear, and Cara teases him about Talia.

C: Now I can see why you didn’t stay with Omera.

M: It isn’t like that.

C: Sure. You keep telling yourself that.

Mando climbs up to his cockpit. The women stay in the main compartment below, still chatting away like excited girls—which he finds not only unusual for them but also strange.

While in hyperspace heading for Nevarro, Mando goes over what he knows about the Bounty Hunter Guild, Greef Karga, the Imperial client, and the city. He needs for everyone—including IG—to be familiar with the situation. After prepping them, Talia seeks out solitude in the cockpit. _(She wants to meditate.)_ Mando and Cara eventually get into an arm-wrestling contest like in the show. And Vandar chokes Cara when he sees them.

When Mando realizes what he’s doing, Talia’s already jumping down the ladder. _(She felt the choke through the Force.)_ Mando convinces the baby to stop, and Cara gasps for breath just as Talia demands what happened. She inspects Cara’s neck while Mando explains. He is a little gruff when he asks Talia how this could have happened, and she says Vandar doesn’t know what he was doing, not really. IG prescribes some soothing tea for Cara’s throat. Talia takes the baby to the cockpit with her. _(“You and I need to have a serious talk, young man.”)_

The team lands on Nevarro, all dressed and armed for the trap they know they are walking into. They didn’t land as far away from the city like in the show. _(Talia’s attire is the same one on Galidraan; she’s wearing her hood and has her blaster yet doesn’t pack her rapier, which Mando finds strange. He sees that she packed her silver, highly secured box in her satchel—which contains her lightsaber.)_ Greef welcomes them, taking notice of the two women accompanying Mando. _(“My, my, Mando! I envy you with your female companions.”)_ When he steps closer to the cradle, Talia lays a protective hand on it. _(“You’re either the child’s adoptive mother or nanny, aren’t you?”)_ Talia continues to go by the name “Tal” for security purposes.

The company journeys to the city like in the show; they should reach it very early the next day. At night, they’re attacked by those winged creatures. _(I haven’t looked up their names, if they have names. And Talia has to stop herself from pulling out her lightsaber.)_ Mando and Talia are back-to-back, shooting at the creatures. The baby, still in his cradle, is beside them both and is safe behind its closed lid. Cara is near Greef when he’s attacked, but Talia grabs her out of the way before the creature could even touch her.

Greef is severely injured. Cara and Talia inspect the wound, and the latter yanks out her med-kit. Vandar touches Greef and begins to heal him. Talia lays a hand on the baby’s head, as if to steady him. _(But she’s actually using the Force so it can flow from her to the baby. No one’s paying attention to her, except Mando who just thinks she’s supporting Vandar. Talia’s Force-healing relays from the baby to Greef while lending strength to Vandar. She feels weak but doesn’t pass out because she’s well-rested.)_ Vandar heals Greef, but since he is unused to doing this Force-power, he slips into unconsciousness. Talia scoops him up and takes him to his cradle while everyone focuses on Greef, amazed by what the baby did.

The next day, Greef has a change of heart and eliminates his bounty hunters like in the show. A new plan is set in motion: Mando orders Talia to take the baby back to the _Crest_. She is to initiate the ship on lockdown with IG until she hears from him. Meanwhile, he, Cara, and Greef will do what they arranged in the show. Of course, Talia protests, saying they should just leave. _(“I have a bad feeling about this, Mando.”)_ But Mando is persistent and tells her to hurry back to the _Crest_.

Everything goes according to the show on Mando’s side. But since Talia has taken Kuiil’s place, things change dramatically.

_(This is what happened, but Mando won’t know about it until later: While Mando, Cara, and Greef are dealing with the Imperial soldiers and eventually Moff Gideon, Talia is running back to the ship. She is in contact with Mando and IG, but their communication is tracked by Imperial stormtroopers. They arrive on speeders, heading straight for her; however, Talia senses their arrival. She retrieves her lightsaber—which she had pulled out from her highly secured box and fastened it to her belt after she left the group—and activates it. With the baby in her arms, she kills the stormtroopers, making sure to keep the speeders intact._

_When she deactivates her lightsaber, IG arrives. He had calculated that she may need his help, but he looks around and says he was wrong. He urges her to return with him to the_ Crest _. They each jump on a speeder, but Talia can’t leave Mando and Cara alone. She has a feeling—though it’s the Force—that they need help, that they’re in grave danger. She hands the baby to IG who tucks him away in a satchel belonging to one of the stormtrooper’s. Donning her hood, she then orders IG to go back to the ship, but he refuses, claiming she will need his help. He calculates that between the two of them, they can save their companions._

_They drive the speeders back to the city. Talia uses the Force to create a wind that stirs up a lot of black dust from the ground. As they zoom through the city, shooting down stormtroopers, the dust soon precedes them.)_

In the cantina, Mando is listening to Gideon chat away. _(He notices Gideon doesn’t mention Talia, meaning she is an unknown variable to the Moff, which Mando sighs in relief.)_ Then they all hear a commotion coming from the city. A black dust-storm blows through the streets and blasts at the troopers. Speeders zoom in. IG starts firing at the men while a hooded figure jumps from his/her speeder. The jump is impossibly high. The figure is carrying a small, thin object, and while they are in the air, a purple glowing blade emerges from the object. The figure gracefully lands in the middle of the troopers, and a shockwave throws them all to their backs and pushes away the black sandstorm. _(Talia used the Force to do both of these things.)_ Gideon yells, ordering his men to shoot down the Jedi and to take their lightsaber.

Blaster fire erupts from the men, and Mando realizes that the figure is Talia. He has no clue what a Jedi is, but it is obvious with the way she can lift up the troopers in the air that she has the baby’s telekinetic gift. He doesn’t have time to process that she’s been lying to him this entire time, even when his companions are just as shocked as he is. _(C: Did you know she could do that, Mando?!)_ He can see the troopers closing in on Talia, so he follows his instincts: he races out the cantina door and starts shooting.

_(I haven’t thought about what the battle would look like, just that it is pretty amazing, Lol.)_

Mando, Greef, IG, and Cara use their blasters to shoot at the stormtroopers while Talia wields her lightsaber. Gideon orders his men to shoot them. Mando makes his way over to that large blaster cannon like in the show, gunning down the Imps left and right. Gideon fires at the cannon, causing an explosion. Talia, having sensed the Moff’s intentions, runs towards Mando but is too late. The explosion knocks everyone down _(those in a ten to fifteen foot-radius)_.

Cara gets to Mando first and hulls him inside the cantina. Talia covers their retreat as the rest of the companions seek refuge inside the cantina, too. Mando, who is severely injured from the explosion, is bleeding at the back of his head. Cara is hovering over him, worried, and Talia joins them, deactivating her lightsaber.

Greef (G): How’d you do that? What kind of weapon is that?

T (taking off her hood and walking over to Mando, asks Cara): How is he?

C: Not good.

(Talia leans over Mando, seeing his blood on Cara’s hand.)

M: So, you had the kid’s gift this whole time. You lied to me.

T: I wanted to tell you.

M: Why didn’t you?

C: Can you two talk about this later? He’s hurt. Bad.

T: I can heal him. (to M) But I need to take off your helmet.

M: No! It’s forbidden.

G: We need to get out of here! IG, can you cut through this grate?

T: I’ll do it. Keep him still, Cara.

In a matter of seconds, Talia uses her lightsaber to cut a hole in the grate. With a flick of her hand, the metal grate falls into the sewer. She returns to Mando.

Moff Gideon (MG, calling out): It seems, Din Djarin, that you know more about the child than I anticipated. Since you have a Jedi as your ally.

T (to M): Din Djarin? Is that your real name?

M: Not now, Kex.

MG: To the Jedi: perhaps you and I can come to an agreement of peace. As per your old Code, you would not want the blood of your companions on your hands, not when given an opportunity to save them. Therefore, I will give you an offer that you should not refuse: surrender yourself into my custody and hand over your lightsaber. Your companions can go unharmed, and together, you and I can uncover the mysteries surrounding the child. I’m sure you are most interested in the species that brought forth one of the greatest Jedi in history: Master Yoda. But my offer will be up in two minutes. Choose wisely.

C: What’s all that nonsense he was talking about? Mando? Tal?

T: Gideon reeks of deception. I should’ve killed him when I had the chance years ago. (turns to M) Let me heal you.

M: What are you? What is the Jedi?

T: We don’t have time for this.

G: We need to leave. (gestures to sewer)

M: I _need_ to know.

T: Then know this: Jedi are peacekeepers. Our gift is called the Force.

M: How come I’ve never heard of you before?

T: Because my people were murdered at the end of the Clone War. But we don’t have time to talk about this. You’re bleeding.

_(Two minutes are over)_

MG (calling out): Jedi, your time is up. What is your decision? (Talia says nothing) Very well. Be exterminated just like the rest of the Jedi.

A stormtrooper with a flame thrower barges through the cantina door. Cara protects Mando while IG and Greef take cover. Talia dives for the baby. The trooper sets fire to some of the cantina. When he pauses, Talia says to Vandar, “Just remember what I taught you: focus. Feel the Force flowing through you, youngling.”

Talia stands up from her cover and stretches out her hands towards the wall of flames heading for her and everyone else. Mando watches as the baby shuffles next to her and copies her movements. The fire stops as if held back by an invisible hand. _(They’re using the Force.)_ He notices that both Talia’s and the baby’s hands don’t shake or waver. Then, the flames get pushed back and consume the trooper.

T: I bought us some time. (turns to face them)

G: We need to leave!

(Talia walks over to Cara and Mando)

M: Here. (pulls out his necklace and Mythosaur pendant)

Like in the show, Mando instructs them all to leave him there, find the Mandalorians in the sewers, and take the child with them. They all protest. Talia adjusts his plan and tells Greef and Cara to do as Mando requests. She says she, IG, and Mando will be right behind them.

Once the three are gone (with the baby wearing the Mythosaur necklace), Talia tries to get Mando to remove his helmet: “I need to help you. Please, let me take it off.”

She reaches for it, and he raises his blaster to her. “I can’t let you,” he says.

T: You wouldn’t dare.

M: Just go.

T: I’m _not_ leaving you.

M: You must. Protect the child. He’s like you. Let me have a warrior’s death. Don’t deny me that, Kex.

T: I’m not going to let another person I care about die. Not when I can help. I’m a Mandalorian like you. That must count for something.

M: No living being as seen my face since I was a child.

IG: I am not a living being.

T: A compromise then.

Talia gets Mando to sit up. She moves and stations herself behind him. “I won’t look. I promise,” she assures him before signaling for IG to remove Mando’s helmet. IG complies, and Mando hears Talia hum thoughtfully behind him.

M: What is it?

T: It’s . . . well, your hair.

M: What about it?

T: Nothing. It’s just . . . it suits you.

IG announces the extent of Mando’s injuries and believes a Bacta spray should help.

T: Apply it, IG. And I’ll help speed up the healing.

After IG does as she asks, Mando feels Talia’s fingers at the back of his head. Her touch is soft, and her fingers are warm. He hears her humming to herself; it is that meditative hum that she sings to the baby. In no time at all, he feels completely healed. He then feels Talia leaning on his back heavily, as if she’s tired. _(She is tired a little. After all that she’s done, fighting and using the Force in other activities, she is a bit drained and needs time to recover.)_

IG: Tal, my scanners are telling me that your blood pressure is dropping. And so are your sugar levels.

T: I’ll be fine. (She pulls away from Mando, but her voice sounds tired.) You can put your helmet back on . . . Din.

When he does and glances back at her, he finds Talia sitting on a piece of broken furniture. Her eyes are closed, and she’s still humming under her breath.

M: Your gift . . . it healed me. (She nods, eyes still closed.) You did that to Rami. And to yourself back on Cholganna. (Again, she nods.)

T: I know you have a lot of questions, but now’s not the time.

IG: My sensors are picking up stormtrooper movement just outside the door.

T: Go into the sewer.

M: And leave you here?

T (eyes still closed): I’ll be right behind you.

M: I’ve heard that before.

T: I just need a moment to center myself. I’ll join you in a minute. Please.

IG does as she says, but Mando stays where he is. Then, he follows IG. The sudden movement dizzies him for several seconds, yet once he is inside the sewers, it goes away. When Talia doesn’t join them, he is tempted to go back up into the cantina. A second later, she jumps down gracefully.

M: Watch your step. It’s dark down here.

T: I can take care of that.

Talia activates her lightsaber. She and Mando walk side-by-side, trying to reunite with the others. They chat while making their way through the tunnels. They discuss, briefly, why she hid her identity. Her explanation is rushed, and she mainly says she didn’t tell him because it was a habit to keep her secret safe, self-preservation told her not to, etc.

They soon hear voices up ahead. When they turn the corner, they find their three companions who are all relieved to see them. Talia deactivates her lightsaber since they are able to see their surroundings, and the group continues to wander in the sewer. Cara voices, like in the show, that the tunnels are like a maze.

T: I sense . . . life. And . . . death.

M: Where?

T: This way.

Talia leads them down through the sewers. _(She’s using the Force.)_ Then, she darts around a corner suddenly. Mando runs after her. When he finds her, she sags to the ground in front of a pile of Mandalorian helmets and other pieces of Beskar armor. _(She’d felt their deaths like a ripple through the Force.)_ Mando rushes over to the discarded armor, horrified by what he sees. Talia, he notices out of the corner of his eye, has bowed her head and murmurs something in Mando’a.

T: I can feel their pain.

M: What happened?

Like in the show, Mando turns to Greef and accuses him of his Tribe’s death. Greef denies killing the Mandalorians, and the Tribe’s Armorer joins them.

_(Basically, things happen according to the show. Same dialogue, same explanation, same actions—except when the Armorer mentions sorcerers and Jedi.)_

G: You mean like Tal. (Everyone looks at him.) Moff Gideon called her a Jedi.

Tribe’s Armorer (TA): Is this true? You are a Jedi?

T (nods): I am Talia Dewan, Padawan Learner of Jedi Master Zebedee Asher. I’m a survivor of Order 66, and I’ve been in hiding most of my life ever since.

Mando is surprised again by the confession. It’s hard for him to view Talia, his ally and friend, as the enemy that his Armorer claimed her people were to the Mandalorians. But despite the pain he hears in Talia’s voice and sees in her eyes, he’s still angry and hurt that she kept her secret from him all this time. _(Time’s rushed. He can’t have long to think about this.)_

M: But you’re a Mandalorian.

TA (to Talia): I find this hard to believe.

T (gives a respectful nod to Armorer): I am a blood-Mandalorian from Onderon. My father’s Clan is Kex.

TA: I have heard of such Clans as yours. But there is only way of the Mandalorians, and by your appearance, you do not practice it.

T: I believe a discussion of our culture’s doctrine should be postponed until another time, even though I would enjoy it.

M (to Armorer): So, I should give the child to her? (nods towards Talia)

TA: She claims to be a Jedi. If you trust her, then do so. _(But he doesn’t, and the Armorer figures that. So, she adds:)_ Yet perhaps it would be wise to locate the foundling’s blood-people. The choice, Din Djarin, is yours.

Like in the show, the Armorer charges Mando with the baby’s safety, calling them a Clan of two. She applies a Mudhorn signet to Mando’s right pauldron and announces that, according to their customs, he is the baby’s father. Next, she gives him a jet-pack—to which Talia smiles at Mando because she knows that a jet-pack and a signet are two things he has long striven for.

Time is flying by, more stormtroopers are coming, and the group needs to leave. Mando urges his Armorer to go with him, and even Talia petitions this same request. But the Tribe’s Leader turns them both down and bids them farewell.

The group heads to the lava river. Talia mentions that finding the baby’s species will be difficult.

M: Why?

T: Because no one knows where the youngling’s people came from.

M: How do you know that?

T: Remember I told you that there was someone who had his gift? His name was Yoda. He was a powerful Jedi Master in my Order. His homeworld is a mystery.

M: But I have to try.

They reach the lava river, and they find a boat like in the show. Both Greef and Mando try to push it free from the shore, but it doesn’t budge. Cara tells the men to stand back and is about to fire at the place where the boat is “glued” to the shore, but Talia lays a hand on Cara’s weapon. _(“Not everything has to be solved with a blaster.”)_ Activating her lightsaber, Talia uses it to sever the boat free then urges the rest of the group to jump in.

While they float down the lava river, Talia maneuvers her way to the baby so she can hold him. Mando, not trusting her, stands nearby.

C (calling out to Talia): How come you’ve kept your gift a secret from us?

T _(replies along these lines)_ : Force-sensitives were hunted down by the Empire. They were experimented on or forced to serve the Emperor. I had to keep my ability to use the Force from a lot of people in order to survive. I’ve done that since I was twelve years old.

_(There’s not a lot of time to delve into this since I figured the boat ride takes less than ten minutes.)_

When they approach the mouth of the underground lava river, they realize that numerous of stormtroopers are waiting to ambush them. Talia says she can take them out with a Force push, but that’s only a temporary fix. IG sacrifices himself so the group can survive. Mando, like in the show, doesn’t want that to be their only option. He’s grown fond of the droid and doesn’t want to return to Arvala-7 without IG.

After IG self-destructs, eliminating the stormtroopers, the group emerges from the underground river unharmed. Cara asks Talia something, and the latter is distracted by it that she doesn’t sense Gideon’s TIE-Fighter approaching them until it is too late. His warning shots cause a spray of rocks to fly around them, and Talia is knocked unconscious. Mando sees that she had instinctively protected the baby from the assault, choosing to ignore her own safety.

With Talia out of commission for the time being, Mando intercepts Gideon’s TIE-fighter like in the show. He uses his jet-pack and plants an explosive on the small ship. When he returns to his group, they congratulate him on a job well done. Talia, bleeding at the side of her head, shakes off her dizziness. The baby reaches up to heal her, and she allows him to while whispering instructions for him.

Mando says his good-byes to Greef and Cara, and Talia follows suite. She wants to see if Gideon is really dead, but everyone assures her that he is. Though she isn’t convinced, she figures they all should leave the area in case more troopers have been called to reinforce their fallen comrades. Mando picks up the baby and uses his jet-pack to fly to the _Crest_. Meanwhile, Talia commandeers a speeder left from one of the stormtroopers and rides it back to the ship.

Mando and Talia leave for Arvala-7 with the baby. They need to tell Kuiil what happened to IG.

** Author’s Closing Note: **

So, what do you think? I hope you enjoyed pretending with me.

Like I mentioned before, I am completely happy with my decision to remove Talia from the last two episodes of the show. As you saw in my outline, her Jedi and Force reveal would’ve been rushed if I kept her there. By pulling her out, I was able to reveal her true identity on my own timetable and on a planet of my choosing. Besides, if I left her in the show’s story, then I would’ve had her tell Mando everything during their trip to Arvala-7 which would’ve been wall-to-wall of explanations and conversations with hardly any action.

You know, I’ve missed writing about Mando and his interactions with Talia like you guys wouldn’t believe. To be honest, I’ve been going through withdrawals since I finished _HoH_ , but I’m trying to use this time—while Season 2 is being released weekly—as a rest period. And I’m also re-editing my stories, correcting grammar and punctuation and other things, nothing too major.

Drop me comment if you’re able! I’ve missed receiving email notifications that someone left me a comment. I want to wish you all a “Merry Christmas!” You’ll more than likely see Part IV of _Mandalorian Legacy_ come out in late December or in the new year.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please comment and leave kudos! Don't be a silent reader :) Comments make me want to write faster and to do it often.


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